


Smoke And Gold

by potatojuiceplease



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon Era, Drama & Romance, F/M, Feminist Juliet, Friends to Lovers, Juliet is not your Mary Sue, M/M, Male to female Tybalt, Multi, Trans Tybalt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatojuiceplease/pseuds/potatojuiceplease
Summary: His Highness Escalus of Verona announces that he will be throwing a ball, to which neither the Montagues nor the Capulets are invited to avoid any fight between the houses. So what do the Montague gang and the Capulet cousins do? Buy their costumes and attend the ball, of course.The problem is, no one knows who is dancing next to them. After a few too many drinks, a barely standing Mercutio loses his discretion and ends up kissing a beautiful maiden behind a golden mask... hotly. Not far from him, a young lady from Mantova no one knows but who knows everyone witnesses the scene from Rosaline Capulet's side, while behind everyone's back, a charming stranger wearing a hood steals a disguised Juliet's heart one more time.When the morning comes and the blurry memories arrive together with the hangover, each of them has a piece of the night's puzzle. Many truths hide behind the jigsaw, truths that no one has ever dared speak. Will any of them be able to put it together and know what really happened at the ball? Or will the Prince solve it first and banish everyone from Verona?(Trans!Tybalt, eventual Bencutio, Romeo and Juliet manage not to die--everything you need, and more)





	1. Benvolio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pargoletta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/gifts).



> Dedicated to bae Julia, for the awesome idea and her own awesomeness, and to the holy chopstick for bringing us together. Everyone reading this, please feel free to slip your own name in this short dedication.

_Dearest subjects of Verona,_

_Thou wilt have acknowledged the closeness of spring, in honour of which I am very pleased to celebrate a masquerade ball in which I shall have the pleasure to see thee. However, taking into account the disruptions that have come from the feud between the Montague and the Capulet houses, and with great affliction, I shall ban either families from the party, seeing as it would be unfair to have only one invited, and dangerous for the rest of the gentle people of Verona to have them both at the ball.  A breaking of this prohibition shall not be left unpunished, for we wish not to have a city torn apart by the chaos of violence and hatred.  
_

_Hoping to see thee soon,_

_Prince Escalus of Verona_

 

"Canst thou believe this?" Romeo asked his friends, waving a piece of paper in front of them. "He hast not invited us to the Spring Masquerade! What might he possibly bear in mind when he banish'd us from the ball?"

"Peace, dearest Romeo," smiled Benvolio, leaning back against the wall of one of the houses that surrounded Verona's main piazza to welcome warm sunrays on his face. "Thou hast caused great stir after thy recent quarrel against Tybalt Capulet, and thus the Prince must warantee his hosts that no problem will surprise them tomorrow night."

Resting seated on the edge of the fountain in front of them, Mercutio nodded, playing with a loose thread of his sleeve. "The Prince hath grown tired of thine constant frays, and I must fear thy banishment from nearly every other grand event happening in Verona. Though, if it will please thee," he added with a mischievous grin, "I shall attend all these parties to tell thee what they are like."

Still holding the already crumpled-into-a-ball paper, Romeo cast a death glance his way and threw the Prince's message at Mercutio's head, missing his target by wider than ten inches. The paper landed on the water making a smooth wet noise, which made Mercutio laugh.

"Thou shall use the party time wisely to practice your aiming, dear Romeo—'tis in great need."

"Indeed shall thou, beloved Mercutio, practice the noble art of shutting thy mouth," grumbled Romeo in response, folding his arms across his chest and stubbornly staring at Mercutio in anger. "Thou being of the same blood as the Prince, thou wouldst fear not being banished from attending any event; but also being our friend, 'tis reasonable to believe that thou wouldst support us in our despair instead of finding it something to make fun of."

With a sigh, Mercutio shook his head, and turned to splash his face with water from the fountain. Some of his blond curls were dripping when he faced his two friends again, eyes lit by another of his reckless ideas. Last time he had looked at the world with such gaze, the three of them had ended up running from the Capulet servants across a graveyard, enough fault that Prince Escalus had them secluded in their homes for two weeks. Usually they got away with murder without much complication, but after their last mischief's close call, the two cousins sitting on the stone bench looked at each other in both expectation and worry as they waited for Mercutio's eventual explanation of whatever he had in mind.

"Thou art to be exiled from Verona by thy cousin any time, Mercutio," said Benvolio in the end to ease the tension of the moment. The proud grin he was given didn't make him feel any safer than Mercutio's first smille.

"Nay," he answered, sticking out his index finger, "for 'tis impossible that my cousin banishes me from our lovely Verona without proof that I did all he suspects I did. As much as I crave to attend the party no matter what, I must reckon that it will not be as magnificent without thee. So I suggest we turn the masquerade in our favour."

Benvolio jolted straight. "Thou art talking of sneaking into a party that we have not been invited to?"

"If it be thy will." Mercutio splashed some more water on his face one last time and walked towards the Montague cousins, stopping midway to offer them a hand. When neither took it, he leaned towards Benvolio and grabbed his hand anyway, pulling him into a mock waltz. "Imagine all the beautiful stars, all the maidens giggling at our sight, all the wine..."

Standing up, Romeo shook his head, although a smile parted his lips. "Why shall it be any different from other parties we can, in fact, attend? 'tis with great curiosity that I ask."

Letting go of Benvolio's hand, Mercutio tapped on his chin with his thumb. "We will procure ourselves costumes," he said slowly, "which are to make us be unknown not only by the other guests, but amongst us dearest friends as well. 'tis discovering thy face under a mask that shall become my objective tomorrow night, and thine as well, dearest Benvolio."

Benvolio wished he could dislike the idea, but he could not deny the rush in his stomach at the idea of attending the masquerade in disguise. Prince Escalus of Verona, cousin to Mercutio, would not regard upon their intrusion kindly after an explicit banishment from the ball, but for that he had to recognise them first. And he knew some people who could ensure he would not be caught. Not even his friends would know it was him under the mask.

Besides Benvolio, Romeo shook his head and let out a short bark of laughter. "Thy idea is bright as the young stars, Mercutio. If it be agreed, we will meet tomorrow anight at the Prince's palace having adressed ourselves for the ball, where we shall let hearts find fellow hearts and bring the dearest together. He who hast not been found by the end of the night will be regarded as the winner of this small game of yours."

"Aye," nodded Benvolio, much to his friends' surprise.

Agazed, Mercutio asked, "Wilt thou not abhor the plans made? 'tis thine agreement that has me admired, for thou art wisdom's argentine voice." With a small smile, he shoved Benvolio playfully, looping an arm around his shoulders. "If it be possible, I wouldst say thou art learning the noble art of entertainment."

The three young men started walking down the street towards the Montagues' home, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight in their faces and the promise of an extraordinary night in their chests. Many vendors settled at the corners of the long way reached out with apples, quills, jewellery and countless other articles on sale in their hands, but the three youth did not stop to buy anything, for their minds were too busy with the scheming of their costumes to focus on such mundane transactions. Upon reaching the Montague property, Mercutio bid them farewell and disappeared down a narrow alley, hands in his pockets and a whistled tune in his lips. Left alone, Romeo and Benvolio looked at each other.

"Agreeing to two suggestions of Mercutio's a-row is not proper of thee, Benvolio." Romeo ducked his head, staring into the warmth of Benvolio's dark eyes. "Dost thou need my dearest Abram, father in heart to me, to seek help for thy health?"

"Worry not, dear cousin, for my well-being is intact. Thy efforts shall focus on finding a disguise good enough to fool Mercutio and I's eyes. Aroint in thy way, as shall I in mine, and achieve thy garments finest for the merry night ahead."

As Romeo waved at him and jogged towards the quarter where the tailors' guild was, Benvolio took a third path and walked slowly towards the ghetto. Settled on the outskirts of the city and mostly looked down on, one of the Jewish children Benvolio had spent his childhood with had grown into the finest tailor of Verona. Of course, he could allow not their blatantly strong interaction anymore when he moved into the Montagues' main household and Romeo became his shadow, but he still kept in touch weekly and even visited once or twice a month. It was this continuity of their friendship that drew a smile on Aliza Ben-Dov's face when Benvolio trespassed the doorframe of her little shop.

"Benvolio!" she exclaimed with glee, leaning over the counter to hug him tight and shortly. "Thou art as handsome as ever. Is ev'rything doing well?"

"Ay, beautiful Aliza," he answered with a grin equally joyful. "How is thy family? Hast thou married already, as promised the last letter you wrote to me? Thy most loved husband shall consider himself benison'd, for he has received the blessing of thy golden heart's bosom."

"Speak not loud, for someone could misunderstand my affection for thee," she laughed. "I have, indeed, married my most adored Enoch, and anon we have found the deepest of loves swollen inside of me."

Benvolio, who had been looking around at the open wardrobes displaying Aliza's astounding skill with the brocades and the gauze, turned around rapidly and held her hands. "My sweet Aliza, have my ears not fooled me? Art thou pregnant?"

His friend beamed at him, squeezing his fingers as she nodded. "The child shall be named Anat, for the birth will be the answer to our prayers for joy in our marriage. Wilt thou visit, my dearest Benvolio? Wilt thou play with Anat as thou played with my beloved brother Dawid and I? Wilt thou blow on their scrapped knees, and kiss their bruised calves? Wilt thou lullaby them to sleep?"

"Ay, my dearest Aliza." With an unexplainable bubbling feeling inside his chest, Benvolio hugged her tight. "'tis with great joy that I make this promise to thee. Nothing could I wish more than to see this child grow."

Aliza tapped her fingers on the wooden counter, and ran a hand through her curly dark mane. Remaking a bride that kept her hair from falling on her face when she bended over the cloth she was sewing, she looked at Benvolio again. "What brings thou to the Jewish quarter, Benvolio? Thine businesses art running well?"

"Indeed they are. I came to the finest of the tailors in Verona looking for a costume, for I have a masquerade to attend where I can not be recognised." Upon Aliza's ducked head and beautiful features contorted in confusion, Benvolio fluttered his hand. "Thou dost know the nature of my love, fair Aliza, and tomorrow anight it must be possible that I finally give the object of my deepest affections a small display of my sentiment. 'tis under such expectations for the next nightfall that I come to thee, as near to being my kinswoman as shall make no difference, the only person who doth know the truth about my feelings. Wilt thou weave a disguise for me?"

Clearly excited, Aliza nodded, already fumbling through the many boxes she kept in the back shop for everything she would need. Benvolio sat on a wooden stool and watched as she studied him and sketched something on a big-sized sheet of paper with a pencil, leaving different fabrics atop the counter as she did. Forgotten sunrays tainted in several shades of orange by the coloured glass of the workshop's windows danced slowly across the well-worn floor, crawling from Benvolio's feet to the opposite wall of the room and melting into shadows as Aliza measured every inch of his body, then made him stand with only his breeches on and began stitching pieces together and weaving velvets and gauzes with lighter materials. By the time she brought a mirror and allowed him to take a look, the moon had relieved the sun in surveilling her hard work, and its faint gleam turned Benvolio into a supernatural creature on the silvery surface.

Long blue sleeves embroidered with Verona's royal pattern fell down to his knuckles, its colours matching the golden brocade of the doublet. Aliza had adjusted the garment around his waist with a discreet leather belt, and brought him a pair of boots of the same material that were about the height of his knees. Luckily, she had told him, his breeches where white, it being the perfect colour not to disrupt the harmony of the rest of the clothes. The more he looked at his image in the mirror, the more he convinced that it could not be him standing on the stool.

Behind him, Aliza smiled as she stretched her back, rubbing her slightly swollen belly. "Thou wilst trip him and he shall fall for thee, dearest Benvolio. Thine beauty is in no aspect inferior to that of the richest kinsmen of the Prince, for thou art now a treasure more valuable than all the gold in Verona."

Jumping off the stool, Benvolio opened and closed his arms to test the movility allowed by the clothing and, satisfied with the result, he opened them once again to hug Aliza's slim figure. "Thou art an artist," he exclaimed.

"'tis not finish'd yet, for I must make a mask for thee that will conceal thy identity from curious eyes, but it elates me to find that my humble creation pleases thee. Thou mayst come on the morrow for thy clothes after I put a night of hard work into them." Aliza patted his back and broke free from the embrace, pointing at a wardrobe with a finger. "There thou wilst find thy garments. And now, give them to me, for I can not wait to make them the best of the city. Be gone before the doors are clos'd for the night, sweet Benvolio, and worry not! Tomorrow thou shall find the finest garments prepared for thee."

 

After Romeo sieged him with questions relative to his whereabouts in the noon and details of his disguise the young heir to the Montague house would most surely use to crown himself victor of their game, Benvolio lay on his bed, thinking about the upcoming masquerade as he stared at the ceiling. For once, he allowed himself to dream. Under the mask Aliza would procure him, would he be valiant enough to look for Mercutio? And if he did find him, would he gather enough courage to, as he had told Aliza, give him a hint at his sentiments? It was probable that Mercutio would get drunk at the ball, so it might be possible that he would not reject Benvolio's feelings too crudely, for alcohol usually polished the rough edges of his personality.

Wondering he spent the night, dreaming of a life-changing waltz under the stars when he closed his eyes, and wondering he woke. "If Mercutio shall recognise me," he said to his image on the mirror, "I will not make any move, for it shall bring the ruin to him. But if he doth not, my affections must be shown somewhere private  while the stars taketh great joy in my glee, for he shall most probably not return the love of a man, even if it be a masked stranger. Aye; in this way I shall procceed, and 'tis this step that God shall forgive of me. I take no pride in going against His law, but o, dearest Mercutio! Thou speed up my heart and mind, and I shall let thee know." Walking from one side of his chamber to the opposite, Benvolio combed his hair and dressed up as he talked to himself, preparing to return to the ghetto to take his costume home.

"Art thou heading anywhere, my dearest cousin? I shall walk with thee, for I am to pick up the astonishing work of art I will be wearing." Romeo looped an arm around Benvolio's, squeezing and smiling. "I promise thee I shall not look at thy businesses unless thou allow me to," he quickly added.

"With the utmost woe I shall deject thy offering, sweet Romeo, for thou must not know a thing about my clothes for the merry night. None of us shall play with an advantage over the other two, after all. But I wish thee the best of lucks to encounter better garments than those I will be wearing, as it shall be an impossible happening."

Laughter made Romeo quiver, his extremely good mood radiating from him in waves. "Save thy luck for thyself, Benvolio. My clothes shall fool thou and Mercutio all night, and my eyes shall guide me to thy faces. Farewell, dearest cousin! At the ball shall we meet in the noon!"

Waving his hand, Romeo jogged towards the street Mercutio had disappeared into the day before. It was not until he turned at a corner and slipped from Benvolio's view that the boy turned around on his heels and began his walk to the ghetto workshops, where a tired yet proud Aliza was waiting for him at her little shop's door.

"Come, dear Benvolio!" she called when he almost walked past her without acknowledging her presence. "'tis my pleasure to announce that thy clothes are done, and ready to embellish your figure. Wouldst thou try them on, to appreciate how they fit?"

Aliza's work had been thorough and exhaustive, for he could not recognise where the fabric had been stitched together to create the doublet. Upon looking at his own image in the mirror, he rubbed his eyes, confused.

"Thy mirror shall be mistaken, for I have never a creature of such elegance and beauty," he muttered, hypnotised by his double in front of his eyes. "Art thine hands magical? Hast thou traded thy soul for a perfect garment? 'tis the envisionment of thine works that makes me believe in Our Lord. Mine, at least," he quickly added, remembering that he was in the Jewish ghetto and not about to enter the church. "Thine hands are divine."

"Thou art too good," Aliza protested, "which will turn into a problem the day I start believing thy words. Canst thou wear it for me tonight?"

 _If Mercutio be as pleased with my looks as she,_ thought Benvolio, _his love shall not be completely out of reach._

 

The sun walked across the blue skies of Verona with an absolute lack of hurry, the hours of the day stretching to the infinite before the three friends' eyes. Each had acquired his own costume and mask, and they all ached to walk into the Prince's spring party. After the longest day of their lives, spent in waiting and staring at nowhere, the dark veil of the night engulfed them like a hungry animal, and their feet carried them to the palace of Verona, where many people could be heard already enjoying themselves with the sweet melodies and sweeter drinks. The Prince had ensured that no corner of the lavishly decorated ballroom would be left without a light, and had similarly arranged several tables with abundant food and drinks so that no guest would suffer from hunger or thirst. Looking around him, Benvolio could only wonder whether the famous masquerades of Venice would resemble Prince Escalus'.

After pouring himself some wine and feeling slightly more light-headed, Benvolio began the extenuating proccess of looking for Romeo and Benvolio in the dancing crowd. Some of their features he knew by heart, such as their height or the aspect of their bodies even under several layers of clothing, but there were many people matching either of the two characteristics. A few maidens in delicate dresses took his hand and dragged him along into a waltz, which he enjoyed more than he would have guessed, and he found himself having a surprisingly good time. The only thing that could make it better, of course, would be meeting his friends, although his heart raced, nervous, as he tried to imagine Mercutio's disguise.

Romeo was the first he spotted, talking to a maid whose red dress made her appear an angel. Benvolio did not interrupt their conversation, but he told himself to remember where he was and return as soon as they parted. Judging by their smiles, it was wiser that way. It struck him that, unless a great deal of luck came to him, he would not meet Mercutio, as while he moved his friend moved too, so he resolved to admire the masquerade around him and simply try to enjoy the ball. He would leave it to chance whether he found Mercutio or not, and his nerves soothed at this thought.

The chandeliers above his head bathed the dancers in a rich mixture of lights and shadows, and made them appear powerful and ethereal, beyond life and death for the night. Silks rustled, breaths tangled and eyes gleamed as they waltzed the different pieces played by an orchestra at the head of the room. Most of the people were dancing the night away, while some others gambled around a long table as they played cards and rolled dice. Open doors on the opposite wall led to the palace's gardens, where Benvolio could distinguish shadows that could only be couples seeking a little more privacy. The Prince was nowhere to be seen yet, but Benvolio knew he was among the crowd, maybe walking around and enjoying his people's joy.

"Dost thou know me?" asked a young man, putting a hand on his shoulder. He wore a dark bahoo and a white volto mask under a tricorno hat, which made him appear ghostly and slightly troubling. Benvolio examined his costume and compared his voice to Mercutio's in his mind, finding that he was not his friend.

"I believe I do not," said Benvolio. "Thy mask is of a skilled craftsmanship, I must reckon."

"So is thine," answered the stranger, raising a hand to rub with the tip of his fingers the blue and golden feathers at the corners of Benvolio's mask's eyes. "Never have I seen such a beautiful design outside Venice. Is thy mask Venetian, by any chance?"

"I must fear it is not. 'tis a woman with amazing hands that made it for me here, in Verona."

The stranger smiled. "If it be such, remember to communicate to her that her skill is in comparison to the mask-maker guilds of Venice's. Peradventure thou canst provide her name?"

Benvolio gave it a thought, but then resolved that, if no one know his identity, no one could judge him for spending time at the ghetto willingly. "Aliza Ben-Dov is the maiden thou lookth for." After, they chattered for a little more before the stranger bid him farewell and disappeared amongst the tight crowd, which grew noisier as the night advanced and the bottles of wine emptied. With a cup in his hand himself, and feeling suffocated by the agglomeration of people, Benvolio fled towards the open doors to the gardens, where a cool breeze blew on his face and dried the sweat from the inner temperature and constant touch.

Many of the people he had spotted at the garden had gone back inside, leaving barely ten people around him. He seated on a bench near the fences, from where he could see the stars as he drank his wine, feeling its warm rush as a nice contrast with the chill of the night. Looking at the sky, he forgot about everything for a moment as he got lost in their dim gleam and the different shapes he saw them displaying. There and then, he was no Benvolio anymore, but simply someone alive and breathing, and this mere reality amazed him as much as it made him dizzy and high with the pleasure of existing.

"Dost thou know me?" Someone cupped Benvolio's face in their hands, their voice twangy presumably because of the alcohol. Something leaped inside his chest when he recognised the voice. "If thou dost not, it doth not matter, for thou art still the goodliest person I have seen tonight. Dost thou dance?" Without waiting for Benvolio's answer, a very drunk Mercutio dragged him back to the large ballroom.

Benvolio had to admit that he looked extremely handsome in his emerald doublet, embroidered with silver threads, and his colourful colombina, which covered his face down to his nose but allowed a glance at his fervent eyes. He was clumsier than usual because of a loose hand with the drinks, but he still danced better than half of the people Benvolio had waltzed with. Around him floated his short cloak whenever they twirled.

"I do know thee," Benvolio said suddenly. "Thou art Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince, brother to Valentine and friend to the Montague cousins Romeo and Benvolio."

In front of him, Mercutio chuckled as he pressed his fingers into his shoulder for another turn. "Very well." And suddenly he leaned in, his breath lingering against Benvolio's lips. "Very well," he repeated, although Benvolio nearly missed it with the deafening heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then Mercutio closed all space between them.

Mercutio might be drunk to the point of nearly passing out, but he kissed like the most sober of men. His lips were insistent on Benvolio's, set ablaze by the wine, and when he reached up to cup Benvolio's face in his hands and pull him even closer, the young Montague's mind went blank. It was the slight rub of Mercutio's stubble against his chin, it was his hands on his face, it was his teeth playing with his lip. It was everything at the same time. Benvolio answered with the fierty of years of needing to do exactly what he was doing, and hoped that his first time kissing someone would not be a disaster. Not because Mercutio kissed badly, when in fact he kissed like a god would if gods kissed, but because Benvolio was completely new to this art. Mercutio did not pull away from him, so he guessed he must not be that bad.

They kissed for a small forever, but Benvolio's hunger for Mercutio did not ease; in fact, it grew and grew and grew, to the point of almost making him go insane. There were needs he did not know he could experience so intensely, but that were very present and demanding in that moment. How someone could have such power over him, he did not know, but it was almost frightening. Almost.

"Very well," repeated Mercutio when he finally separated his lips from Benvolio's, which were parted and swollen. He was gasping as well, inhaling in short, quick breaths, and frowning as he looked into Benvolio's eyes. Then he turned and disappeared among the crowd, leaving Benvolio alone and breathless.

Whether it was good or bad, he couldn't tell.


	2. Tybalt

Rosaline was not finding it easy to talk her cousin into accompanying her to the party. It was under exceptional circumstances that she was being so insistent on Tybalt attending Prince Escalus' ball, of course, as she would not have pushed him further than a polite question had it been a classical party. But, it being a masquerade, she was firmly convinced that Tybalt should take advantage of the fact that no one would be expecting to see his face, nor anyone's. Everyone would be expecting a sea of masked fellow citizens, among which only the worst disguises would give away the identities they were supposed to conceal.

"Thou dost know I love thee, dearest Rosaline," said Tybalt for the hundredth time, his voice rough, "but my answer remains a 'no'. My curse is already heavy upon my shoulders, and shall it be discovered by anyone else, a terrible disgrace would fall upon the house of Capulet. I must not dishonour the family by attending the ball in my condition."

With a sigh, Rosaline stared through the window, watching as a V-shaped flock of birds glided across the orange sky of the evening. For a moment, she wished she did not love her cousin so much, as it would be extremely simpler to solve such a delicate matter if so. In fact, had they not grown so attached, she would not even know about what happened to Tybalt; nevertheless, her cousin would have had to suffer in silence for all his life had she not been besides him, so she decided upon retiring her initial desire.

"Sweet Tybalt, no disgrace could ever fall upon the house of Capulet relating to thy condition, for thou art not cursed. Thou knowst no sin lies inside thy heart, which shall beat all the same however thy appearance is shaped."

"How canst thou say that, Rosaline? How canst thou not reject me for my abherrant want?" Tybalt squeezed Prince Escalus' invitation to the ball until his knuckles turned pale, the same shade as the walls of the room they were in. The crumpled paper fell to their feet when Rosaline opened his hands kindly, intertwining his fingers with hers as she forced them apart.

"Do not speak of abherrances, Tybalt, save to acknowledge the nature of thy rejection of thyself." Raising a hand to cup Tybalt's cheek, she offered him a small smile. Under the last sunrays of the day, she appeared a mysterious and magical being to him, of a goodness too big to be real. The blonde halo framing her hair did nothing but strengthen this perception of Rosaline as his guardian angel. "I will not insist any more, nor will I speak of the ball again if it disturbs thee. But I must assure that no wrong lies in thee, for I know thy true self and see that it is beautiful. Thou shall feel no shame of it."

Tybalt nodded, visibly not willing to adopt her vision of him, and did not say anything else. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands while he crumbled inside and tried to quickly rebuild whatever he could from the ruins.

Knowing how he needed space after such a daring conversation, Rosaline stood from the bed they were seated on and walked to the window she had been peering through, pulling the curtains closed. All remaining daylight faded through the thick fabric. Her bedroom was now dimly lit by only the candles she kept on her nighstand, which casted uncanny shades that could not resemble less the objects they were born from. 

"Look. A crow," she said after a while, pointing at the black shape behind a candelabra. "Could it talk, I believe it would say 'Keraah'. What dost thou think 'Keraah' would mean?"

Now staring at his intertwined fingers, Tybalt's lips curved in the smallest smile. "It might mean, 'I am a terrible Shadow Crow, fear me!', dost thou not think? It most certainly looks like a terrible Shadow Crow, of terrible strength and terrible powers. But, dearest cousin," he continued, finally looking up from his hands and searching for a shadow that inspired him on the walls of the room, "I think thy Shadow Crow could not be rival for the Quiet Mole." 

Rosaline looked across the room following the direction of his eyes. A bunch of darkness stood at a corner, behind a chest with a few dresses messily piled atop. "Why dost thou think thy Quiet Mole could overpower the Shadow Crow? My brave bird is certainly a frightening enemy."

"Because, beautiful cousin, the Mole is silent.  All it ever does is being silent; extremely, disturbingly, sickeningly silent." Tybalt tapped a finger against his temple. "When the silence comes and thy bird is left alone with its somber thoughts, it will not survive it. The demons that inhabit its mind shall consume it, until all that remains is a bird with a flight that has a destination no more."

The nurse knocked on their door, letting them know that they were greatly missed at the dining room. Rosaline patted the long skirt of her garnet dress and stood, looking at the Quiet Mole in the same silence the creature oozed. "The Mole, forsooth, sounds like a terrible foe to face. Come, dearest Tybalt; we shall sup with our precious family, which already attends thee and I. Let no more businesses of apparels and wicked beasts disrupt thy peace of mind tonight. Methinks thou hast had enough already."

Rosaline left first. Tybalt exited the room shortly after, having blown the candles one by one until all that remained were thin trails of greyish smoke and darkness in her faintly-moonlit room.

 

Of course, Rosaline's kind heart and strength of belief in him, as usual, reached deeper than he would have liked them to. And so he lied on his bed after a swift, cheerful dinner, thinking about Prince Escalus' masquerade and the shy 'what if's it awoke inside of him. The garments for the event supposed no problem at all, as Rosaline's wardrobe and skill with anything that could be worn were beyond trustable if he, after all, decided upon attending the ball. She would ensure that no one could recognise him; of that he was certain. The story he would shield behind was also question-proof, for they had schemed the smallest details since the day he had spoken the truth to her. Her...

Her... Who was her? Indeed, it was a good question. 

It was one of those nights. Nights in which she craved her freedom, strengthened by the illusion of eternity offered by the deep skies the stars dwelled. Nights of chests burning with the aching desire to stand a ground he knew it was forbidden to hold. Nights of praying to the saints his mother had taught him to trust, from whom he only asked a signal that maybe his curse was not such, after all. Nights of not knowing who or what Tybalt Capulet was anymore.

Tired of tossing and turning in bed, he kicked the sheets aside to the floor and stood, looking at the full-length mirror besides the writing desk across which several books were scattered. Slowly, he took a belt that hung from the back of the chair and used it to make his night gown cling onto his waist. No. It looked wrong. He pulled it up, adjusting it around his ribcage, right below where his chest flattened and he secretly wished it did not. Now it was better. He tried to ignore all the voices in his head screaming at him how disgusting this was and, bending to pick the sheets up, he threw them over his shoulders, like a shawl. 

He looked in the mirror until he could stand it no more, then violently pulled the covers off him and fell to the floor right besides them, where he bent his knees up to his chest and closed a fist around his short mane, praying for the pain to be over. The sword stuck through his torso froze his insides, and hurt every time he breathed. Oh, how he wished he could be strong like his cousin Juliet, decided not to engage to any man just yet, who had had the courage to refuse even the charming Paris' marriage proposal. For some reason, he thought of the Montagues whom he often quarreled with. Romeo Montague with his stupid smile, plastered on his face, and his two acolytes Mercutio and Benvolio. Specially Mercutio, who sickened him to the core with his sharp tongue and foul grins. The less harmful of the three was Benvolio, who occasionally even tried to stop the fights that rose between Tybalt and his two friends, but he disgusted him as well. Anyone who disregarded his family or supported the former was foe to him, and Benvolio did not show any sign of being against the continuous offences his friends commited against the house of Capulet.

Envy struck him like a lightning. Everyone knew what the rumours said about one of the three friends, and what his heart pursued; about another one, and the skirts he chased; and also about the third, and what he was running from. Still, they seemed happy. Tybalt dared think they were. So why should not he? If Rosaline could really make him unrecognisable, and he stood far from the thick of the crowd... And if he was really, really careful not to say or do anything mildly risky...

Inside his chest, she took advantage of the blurry storm of feelings he was trying to deal with and pleaded for a single night of freedom. Tybalt looked up at the moon, fighting the last battles of a war he knew beforehand he had lost.

"Okay," she muttered to herself.

 

Imagining the worst-case scenarios was something Tybalt discovered she was wonderfully good at. Out of a single social event as herself, she could make out over two hundred minor things that could lead to a complete disaster; she lost count after the two-hundred-and-thirtieth one, in which a slice of Monte Veronese cheese resulted in her being recognised and repudiated. Every outcome of the night he could think of ended up in her being recognised and repudiated, of course, but the paths that lead to it grew more and more creative.

"But what if thou, by accident, discover the truth to a distant relative that encounters thee and asks about my absence, Rosaline?"

She was not fazed by her relentless pesimism, and she stopped the tune she was humming while she stuck needles here and there through the back of one of her dresses, so that it would suit Tybalt's hollow figure. "It would forsooth be a disgrace, but forbear thy fear, for my mouth shall not betray thee while I breathe." 

Tilting her head to the side, Rosaline grabbed her hand and helped her step onto a wooden stool. Once she had made sure Tybalt was steady on her feet, she knelt and began working on the length of the dress' skirt. Rosaline was a few inches taller than Tybalt, and she had to shorten the beautiful habit if she did not want it sweeping the ground the Prince's palace for the entire night. Fortunately, that was the most difficult part, for their feet were practically the same size, and the same colours favoured their similar looks and builds. Only the colour of Tybalt's fiery hazelnut mane diferred from Rosaline's gentle blond hair; they shared the same big green eyes, fair skin and blossoming of roses in their cheeks every time they got excited.

"Then let not thyself stop breathing for the night," Tybalt muttered, playing with one of the long sleeves. Around them, the house was quiet, their voices being the only sounds to break the silence. Their parents were already asleep, having refused to stay awake and roam the house in their ill moods while the rest of the city enjoyed themselves, and Juliet was preparing for the ball across the corridor. Whether Rosaline had convinced her too or Juliet had gotten Rosaline to attend the party, and the latter had then dragged Tybalt along, she could not tell.

After a few minutes in complete silence, which was dense enough to have been the Quiet Mole's doing, Rosaline stood and fumbled through her open wardrobe until she found a pair simple beaded shoes, which were comfortable like boots but beautiful like the most expensive chopines in Europe. Then she pulled the fabric of the overskirt a little until it fell into place, and stepped back.

"Thou art beautiful tonight," she proudly announced. "Allow me to help thee with the kennel, which will help thee conceal thy short hair, and let us be gone to the Palace of Verona."

"But Juliet..." Tybalt let the name of her other cousin die in her lips as he felt his stomach churn, for Juliet did not know about her nature. When she turned to look at Rosaline, worried, the farthingale was light around her waist, and despite its dreadful appearance when Rosaline had helped her put it on, not difficult to move with at all. 

"Worry not," Rosaline reassured her, "for I have arranged with her that she and I will meet at the Palace. I wish not to see thee troubled this merry night." 

While Rosaline adjusted the squashed black pentagon on her head, Tybalt looked at her. She was beautiful even as she danced from one side of the room to the other, her emerald dress matching her breathtaking eyes. She was the only person Tybalt had ever seen on whom the leg-of-mutton sleeves, which were too puffed for Tybalt's liking, looked good. The bolster around her delicate waist was the same dark colour as the beret atop her head, the latter tilting graciously to the side. Overall, Rosaline was like a princess off a fairytale, both on the outside and on the inside.

Tybalt, on the other hand, looked great in a completely different way. The white slashing and puffing of the finestrella sleeves was more savage, the flower-patterned stomacher flatter on her completely plain chest, the jewelled belt around her waist colder than the gauze bolster around Rosaline's. But what he liked the most was the colour, the deep ruby of the Capulet family. Subtle specks of gold splashed her clothing here and there, mostly the square neckline and the laces that tied the sleeves tight around her wrists, but wherever your eyes went, they could not ignore the bright scarlet wrapping up Tybalt's figure. It screamed, 'Look at me. I am here, and I am not afraid.'

For a moment, she could not say a word. Rosaline's godlike fashion skills had literally stolen her breath away. "My most loved Rosaline, I..."

Her cousin smiled and shook her head, a hand on Tybalt's. "Thou art not to thank anything, sweet Tybalt. The sight of thee joyous is enough appreciation. Here; thou must wear this mask I offer thee, and thy costume will be complete." 

She handed her a colombina mask that covered, together with the border of the kennel, most of her face, leaving only the chin and mouth exposed. Rosaline had covered the small scar that ran down the corner of her lips with her powder, and then painted her mouth crimson, so that the little mark was nearly invisible. Overall, Tybalt did not look like Tybalt anymore. Despite the furious quake in the pit of her stomach and the voice inside his head saying that this was a terrible idea, she loved it.

A muffled noise came from Juliet's room, a rustle that most probably implied she was already on her way to the palace. Rosaline must have heard it too, because she opened her own window and seated on the frame, lifting her legs and turning so that they hung above the grass of the garden. Then she let herself fall, nearly disappearing from Tybalt's sight, and waited for her to join her under the dark sky riveted with stars. 

Feeling a rush of adrenaline and pure fright run through her veins, Tybalt blew the candles and jumped through the window.

 

The ball was as densely crowded, as noisy and marvellous as she had imagined it. No corner had been left without light, for there were chandeliers wisely distributed across the high ceiling of the room, and the tapestries hanging from the walls with the colours of Verona's coat of arms were exquisite. Many gathered around the tables for gambling, drinking wine or eating the food displayed on silver platters, which smelled deliciously when they walked past in search of a spot where the mass of people was looser. Knowing how Tybalt hated being among so much people when under her true appearance, Rosaline took her near the open doors that led to the gardens, where the fresh, chilly air of the night felt easier to breathe.

"Dost thou dance?" she asked Tybalt, offering her a hand and a genuine smile.

Tybalt, whose throat had gone dry, tried to gulp and took Rosaline's open hand, squeezing it so hard her knuckles went white. Rosaline did not complain, but rather began waltzing to the music of the delightful orchestra at the head of the room. They played beautifully, and after a while, a part of the tension started to abandon Tybalt's shoulders slowly. She danced the male part while Rosaline did the female, for they knew not how to dance differently, and she could have sworn they did better, even with the skirts' fuss, than many man-and-woman couples.

When Tybalt made her spin around, which was quite dangerous considering the wooden hoops that kept their overskirts wide and the amount of people around, Rosaline let out a happy giggle. "Thou art a great dancer," she congratulated her, taking her hand again. A few strands of blond hair had escaped her beret, making her look even more beautiful. "Art thou having fun?"

"Ay," said Tybalt, nodding with a shy smile. "I would consider that an accurate statement, for I do not think there is any different way to describe the tickle in my chest."

"Then I am immensely joyous for thee, sweet cousin."

Together they danced to several more pieces, until a tall young man with dazzling dark eyes thatTybalt recognised as Paris, kinsman to Prince Escalus and Juliet's former suitor, politely asked for a dance with Rosaline. Tybalt's heart sommersaulted inside her chest when he talked to them, convinced that they had been discovered. She wanted to cry from glee when Paris turned out to want something as innocent and harmless as a dance, instead of the heads of the Capulet cousins.

When Rosaline disappeared into the crowd holding Paris' hand, Tybalt leaned back against a wall and carefully breathed in and out, enjoying the sweet scent of freedom. It was not the first time she wore a skirt, but it was indeed the first time she did so outside her room and in front of someone else. A lot of 'someone else's. There was still a part of her that expected the less important peasant in the room to realise who she was, but there was also another part shyly hoping that she would be able to repeat this. Despite the fear and the risk, being a girl made her feel alive like no other thing could.

Someone bumped into her, and quickly muttered an apology. Feeling high with happiness, she smiled shyly as she rose her gaze to answer, and froze in fear when she saw who it was. She was sober again real quick. The dark braid could only be Juliet's. The same Juliet who was holding a stranger's hand. A stranger with a mask so small, he could only be Romeo Montague.

"I beg thy pardon," Juliet said hurriedly, Romeo already pulling her arm and motioning towards the gardens. Tybalt managed a stiff nod, unable to move or speak. If Juliet saw anything remotely familiar or wrong with her, she did not let it show.

Even after Juliet and Romeo had disappeared, engulfed by the dark night, she could not move for a while, too busy calming herself. She whispered, "It is okay. No one recognised thee. Thou art safe," over and over again, like a spell that would work as long as she kept repeating it. Still, all her enthusiasm about the party and the forbidden pleasure of being there had disappeared. Now all she wanted was to go home and lie under the warm sheets, which might be able to soothe her trembling.

She had to escape from the ball and run, run until her lungs burned and her legs ached and her whole body hurt, until the physical pain was enough that she would not think about the inner. 

But Rosaline was still somewhere, dancing with Paris, and Tybalt could not leave without at least telling her, for she would worry greatly. So Tybalt resolved to lean back against the wall, try to blend in with the tapestry behind her, and wait for Rosaline to return.

Many couples danced past her, in a flutter of gauzes, velvets and silks. Laughter and whispers echoed across the hall, mixing with the melodies played by the orchestra to conform the symphony to the Prince's ball. Tybalt envied them all for a moment, even envied herself, her some-minutes-ago, pre-Juliet-and-Romeo self. Careless, free, remorseless. If only she could feel like that again for a second, for a single and delicious second. But now that she had been reminded of the hazards of what she was doing, she could not. She must return as soon as possible, and bury this gruesome part of herself somewhere so deep that it would never tempt her... Him again.

"Art thou tired already?" When he felt Rosaline's hand on his shoulder, his heart knocked furiously against his ribcage. Her sweet smile reassured him slightly, but not enough to make him comfortable again. Much less to allow _her_ to regain control.

Tybalt felt a breath of chilly air coming from the garden, and shivered. "Ay," he lied. "A brave ball this hath been, but I must retire to rest. I was attending on thee, dearest cousin, to wish you the merriest of soirees."

"I must accompany thee back," Rosaline said, unable to hide a grimace of preoccupation, "for thou art not to wander the streets of my sweet Verona alone this night. I will bid my partner farewell, and anon we will be gone." Before Tybalt could plead her not to leave him alone again she was nowhere to be seen again, looking for Paris and oblivious to the ancient fear chewing at the edges of Tybalt's sanity.

Trying to soothe his shattered nerves, Tybalt looked around. It was weird to see people happy and cheerful when he was feeling so small, judged and hated on, mostly by himself. Somehow it did not make sense. But, after all, did any part of the night make sense? Did it make sense that he had allowed himself to experiment and try to be a girl? Did it make sense that, even though he was in complete denial of what he had done, a small part of him wanted to stay a her? Did it make sense that he looked at the dancing women with envy? Had it ever made sense that he had sneaked Rosaline's dresses from her wardrobe since they were little? No. Nothing made sense.

And another of the things that did not made sense was the couple that stopped waltzing in front of him to kiss. Because they were two men, and men were not supposed to kiss, much less in the middle of such a tight crowd.

It was something just as forbidden as the dress he was wearing, and for a moment, Tybalt watched with morbid fascination. Then he forced himself to look away, feeling like an intruder. It was a slightly stupid thing to feel, as most of Verona was inside the palace, but he still stared at the chandeliers hanging above his head and tried to count the candles.

When he had counted up to forty-three, someone bumped into him. "I crave thy pardon," they muttered. "Hey, art thou..."

Tybalt felt his mask slipping down his nose, and immediately threw his hands up to his face, trying to keep it in place. The porcelain was cold to the touch, which startled him. He felt as if he were burning with a fever. "Excuse me," he quickly said, his heart racing in his throat so fast that he feared it would actually hurt him. His sweaty hands were not being helpful with the mask, which grew more rebellious as his nervousness intensified. 

"Thy mask is breaking, sweet lady," the stranger said. "Methinks that..." 

Suddenly, it was as if the Quiet Mole had entered the room and laid its eyes on Tybalt and the young man. A deafening silence strummed Tybalt's ears violently when the mask finally slipped down the sweaty bridge of his nose into the stranger's open hands, which kept it from falling to the tiled floor.

Tybalt wished he could die. Maybe the Shadow Crow would peck his neck to death.

He covered his face with his hands, but the stranger had seen him already. Quietly, he put the mask back in place and then stared at Tybalt, safe behind his own colombina, which concealed not only his face, but his thoughts as well. They stared at each other while Tybalt felt the Mole claw at his chest. Maybe if he packed his things fast enough, he could leave Verona before the sun rose. But what of his family? The knot in his chest grew a little tighter when he thought of all the rumours and shame they would have to endure. And all because he had wanted to play with dresses and kennels.

"Come, and we shall return to..." Rosaline's sweet voice broke. "Art thou occupied, dearest cousin?" 

She was somehow tenser than he himself was, which was quite an achievement.

"Nay," he quickly said. "I... This gentle man demanded I tell my name," he improvised. Of course, the stranger could simply open his mouth and reveal that he knew Tybalt Capulet had attended Prince Escalus' ball, from which he had been explicitly banned, dressed as a woman. But he did not, for some reason Tybalt could not quite discern.

Rosaline looked at them, and managed to smile weakly. "I must fear thou dost not know my sweet cousin," she said, "for she is not from Verona. Tazia is her name, from the house of Zefirelli. She has come from Trieste to visit us at my terribly-sick father's request, who wishes to see his family reunited one more time." 

The stranger bowed. "I am extremely sorry about thy father's ill condition, beautiful lady. To thee I warrant that the house of Zefirelli will be in my prayers, and our sweet Lord shall hear. Farewell, Zefirelli damsels." Then he turned, without adding anything else, and blended with the crowd, a small speck of bright blue in the ocean of colours. Rosaline let out a big breath, and grabbed Tybalt's hand.

"Come. We must leave this ball," she urged him. She pulled his hand, but Tybalt could not move. He just stared at the people waltzing and having the night of their lives, moving his lips in a quiet mumble Rosaline could not hear. Demanding what was wrong, she leaned in and tried to listen.

She clenched his hand when she understood. Tybalt's curse had, after all, struck the Capulets. Disgrace was soon to befall them.

"He saw me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to finish this fic before the summer ends, so let's make it weekly--brought to you with a charming smile and even more charming bloodshot eyes at 3AM by a not-so-charming writer every Saturday! Just what else could you ask for?


	3. Juliet

Juliet Capulet did not like words much. 

It was not that she disliked talking, much less being talked to. In fact, she did enjoy the company of others, and was pleased by small talk just as much as anyone. And it was not, either, that she disliked books or, for that matter, letters. Every time someone wrote to her, she took joy in reading the message several times before answering, slowly, savouring the lines in silence, moving her mouth as if she were to declaim the text and marvelling at the thought that simple stains of ink on paper could be translated into sounds that meant something.

No, it was not that kind of words that she disliked. She disliked her own, because they refused to be tamed. It was hard to explain her little problem with words, because she could not find appropiate ones to do so. Many times she had tried to tell her parents, to explain why she felt shy and never talked much when foreigners to the Capulet family were around, but it was too difficult. Of course, it was not that she was stupid, and nor did she have any kind of mental problem. Actually, she was clever. Extremely. And she suspected that was her problem. She could have the ideas, but she was not able to fathom them into coherent sentences. She could think of awesome theories and bright explanations for almost everything, but not bring herself to make the others understand. 

Quite often, she found herself tripping over sounds or saying a strange thing that did not exist, which ashamed her greatly. Juliet knew it was not because she was unable to do it right, but knew as well that she was unable to do it right. Everyone thought it to be simply a signal that she was a poor speaker, but she had resolved long ago that her mind was to blame for a completely different reason. It worked too fast. Whenever she spoke, she would get frustrated that the other did not understand what was so clear before her eyes and start baffling them with isolated facts and rambles that had to do with what she had in mind, but that were too random to make sense to anyone else. Also, her mind raced to weave her speech, so that whenever she pronounced something in a weird way, or said a word that was wrongly spelled, or a badly conjugated verb, or simply something that was a nonsensical mixture of other terms, she knew it was because her mind was already planning three or four sentences ahead of what her mouth was saying. Despite it not being necessarily bad, she still felt horrible every time it happened.

So yes, Juliet Capulet did not like words. She preferred to listen and collect advice, anecdotes and opinions, which she would later on use to brew her own. Smart and quick-witted as she was, she had grown a quite interesting and rich inner self, who was keen on equality, history and rhetorics, something quite rare among women. Having been taught by the best teachers his father could summon from all the Republic of Venice, she could already figure she was not to be a model wife, precisely. She loathed the idea of spending her life at home, sewing and only going out to the church or to the market. There were rumours of noble women who, despite it being considered as lacking civil decorum, helped run and mantain charitable hospices. That sounded more like what she would be pleased to do, and less like what a husband would like. 

Honestly? If she were to choose between a man and a future beyond the doors of her home, it was crystal clear to her what the outcome of the election would be.

As she slipped inside the dress she had chosen for the masquerade she had been forbidden to attend and did up the laces in front of the mirror, she distractedly looked at the reflection of the moon, which was unusually big and bright. She remembered a lesson on Ancient History, and how people attributed natural phenomena to godly figures. The Greek goddess of the moon's name was Selene, she lazily thought. Her mind quickly started skipping from myth to myth, and she let herself wander mentally as she finished dressing up and put on the mask. Something that ought to have felt dangerous and incorrect, but that actually made something in her stomach rush and tickle.

 

"A masquerade is to be hosted by our brave Prince Escalus," her father had explained the previous day when she asked him about the letter brought home earlier by a servant. There was a certain darkness to his tone that she knew had to do with the Montagues. "But he hath decreed that no Capulet must be present tomorrow anight at his palace, or else retaliations art to be dreaded."

"Surely it is not exclusive for the Capulets, father?" she had asked, running her fingers down his arm to calm him. "It would fright me to hear that kinder regards are held on the Montagues. If it be fair, they are not to attend the ball either, for their ill intents against our house are known by even the basest knaves of Verona."

His fists still tightly clenched, lord Capulet nodded. "Aye," he mumbled. "But it still doth not make sense that we shall be merely equal in received treatment to the Montagues, when the lowest of men they are."

Juliet bit her lip as she caressed his father's arm, silent. Of course, it was not something she would ever say out loud, but in her heart she knew that the Montagues were not to blame more than the Capulets. _Two do not quarrel_ , she thought, _if one doth not desire to, and 't is logic to conclude that both houses are active instigators of the conflict. Otherwise, there would be not such contentness to join whichever little fray the humblest Montague servant stirs._ But, aware of the blinding rage burning inside lord Capulet, she had never voiced her thoughts. And she did not wish to start now.

After a while watching the garnet tapestries hanging from the walls of the big room, lit by the lazy afternoon sunlight that slipped in through the semiarched windows and seemed to carry particles of shiny gold inside every ray, Juliet rose from her father's side and curtsied discreetly before hurrying down the corridor that led to the bedrooms, flanked by tall marble columns. Her slippers were soft on the floor tiles, decorated with handpainted flowers. The only sound breaking the calm was the rustle of Prince Escalus' invitation against her dress, squeezed inside her fist.

"Rosaline," she whispered after knocking on her cousin's door. It was not necessary to keep her voice low, but she did nonetheless. A knock from the other side signaled that Rosaline was listening. "Make Tybalt informed." Then she slid the invitation under the thick wooden door, and turned to the two opposite her cousin's. The one to the left opened to her room, while to the right was the door that guarded her _studiolo_. 

Her mother had insisted that she turn it into something more feminine, beginning with the name, but she had refused point-blank. She adored the way it was, from the smell of old parchment and ink to the wide side windows that allowed the sunlight to invade the white room entirely. And no, she was not retiring the worn map of Italy from the wall. Nor was she putting away the texts from ancient philosophers that crowned the shelves, or the bird feathers she enjoyed picking from the garden and then displaying in pots. In the middle of the big room was a massive table on which lay a stack of papers, some quills and a small jar with ink. That day she was not on the mood to practice Math nor try to write a disgression on the last chapter she had read from Plato's _Republic_ , but she wished she were. Working at the _studiolo_ always lifted her spirits, and although nothing bad had happened, she had a feeling that she would need a good dose of cheer soon enough.

Uneasy as she felt, she did not know neither the reason nor the solution. She tried to focus on Aelius Donatus' _Ars Grammatica;_ but it was already an extremely difficult read whenever she was paying full attention and had lord Severi by her side to aid her, and it became obvious quite quickly that both his absence and her distraction were to prevent any learning. It did not help, either, that her Latin was not as fluid as she would like yet.

"Who art thou," she sighed, leaning on the window and watching the Capulet gardens with tender, "that keep bothering my mind? Thou wast silent earlier in the morrow, when my dearest father had not shown me the Prince's edict." She enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face, and retreated her head back inside the _studiolo_ when her skin started tickling and the gentle day began to lull her to sleep.

In the end, she called her Nurse to assist her at taking care of the several plants Juliet had planted in the garden. Together they peeled off dry flowers, cut dead branches and watered, then pulled off weeds and checked the soil and leaves closely for any sign of pesky bugs and plagues. Juliet remained quiet and simply enjoyed the touch of the dirt in her hands, whereas her Nurse sang several melodies as she worked.

"Thou art a lady," the woman grunted as she stood, arching her back to stretch it after a good two hours of working. "What is thy interest in counterfeiting peasantry? Look, thy apparel is undone." She patted Juliet's dress disapprovingly, frowning at the stains of dirt and grass here and there.

Juliet sighed, raising her hand to protect her eyes from the blinding sun. While crouched working, they had been sheltered by the shadow of a large olive tree, but they were tall enough that this protection could not stretch further than their height when standing on their knees. "My sweet Nurse, 't is not peasantry that I seek, but rather..." She looked down at the fresh-looking plants, and quietened. The only possible answer that occured to her was 'feeling alive', but she could not say that. She knew she would not be able to explain how being busy taking care of something as simple as a carrot took away her eternal boredom, and made her feel like she had a purpose. "Thou must not take care of my garments on my behalf, for I am responsible for their disastrous state."

Tight-lipped, her Nurse shook her head. "Nay, lady Juliet. Bring them to me later, for 't is my job to take care of thee and thy clothes. I will fix them contently. But now, do help me carry these inside," she added, pointing at the tools they had used. Juliet was happy to do as she was told.

 

Rosaline and Tybalt had visited her room that night, and Rosaline had explained how they would disguise for the event. Tybalt had hesitated, and shrugged when Juliet asked him whether he would be attending the masquerade. "I afear my stomach hurts a little," he had said, "so I can give thee not an answer yet, dearest cousin."

"Maybe a friend of mine will attend the ball," Rosaline added with a small smile. "She doth not know yet. But I shall be happy to go under any circumstance, sweet Juliet. Hast thou chosen thy attire?"

"Aye," Juliet nodded. "Worry not, Rosaline, for I must be able to help myself."

Still, Juliet spent a good hour in front of her open wardrobe before finally coming up with an passable outfit for the event. Her mother had not allowed her to turn her room into a replica of her _studiolo_ , already outraged by the permissiveness lord Capulet had shown when he ordered that his only daughter's private studio be built, and so it was less personal than she would have liked. Nonetheless, lady Capulet's taste in decoration proved itself useful sometimes, and Juliet was glad to have a body-sized mirror as she tied the laces of her white dress herself. Normally it would have been done by her Nurse, but she doubted the woman's willingness to help the Capulet heir break a direct order from the Prince to sneak into a party. Doing it herself made her arms ache after a few seconds, but the result looked acceptable and tasted sweet.

Before leaving, she stuffed some dresses under the covers until the lump was the approximate size of a person, then opened the windows of the _studiolo_ to allow an easy way in and scurried through the window, closing it as she fell to the other side. She had made sure to remove the pots with flowers earlier in the day, while working in the garden with her Nurse, so her shoes found nothing but humid dirt when they met the floor. Although she knew that she should not be doing such a thing as slipping away from her home in the middle of the night, the frantic pulse thrumming in her ears thought otherwise.

Juliet had not wandered through the streets of Verona enough to know them, so she walked about the widest one she could find until she came across masked people, then followed the small group to the Prince's palace. After turning right at the city's main piazza, her surroundings became familiar, but she stuck to the three couples nonetheless, just in case her memory was not to be trusted fully. 

Prince Escalus had ensured that his palace would look spectacular. Hundreds of candles had been strategically placed around the building, far enough from the doors that no maiden's dress would catch fire by accident, but at the same time achieving the illusion of the palace being lit by a single, massive candle from the inside. Verona's colours were weaved together to form the tapestries that hung above the arch of the main entrance, looking old and royal with the orangeish candlelight. When Juliet entered the palace, she saw that the inside had been decorated just as lavishly, with the addition of a fine-looking orchestra, some tables to gamble, get food and get drinks from, and a tight crowd dancing and laughing.

"Dost thou know me?" a husky voice asked shortly after she entered the hall, its owner reaching for her hand. Juliet discreetly retired it from reach, and offered a polite smile. Then she realised that she was wearing a full-faced mask, and thus her gesture made no sense.

"I must fear not," she answered, curtsying. "An I suppose thou dost know me not, either?"

"Thy suppositions are arrant right, beautiful lady." The man bowed his head, and the argentine specks on his mask shone brightly. "If my eyes be correct, thou art not keen on dancing?"

Juliet smiled again, feeling the cold porcelain against her lips. At least she would not have to shoo him away. "Thy eyes are correct, my lord. Dancing hath never been a talent of mine, and belike I must make a better thinker than dancer."

Much to her surprise, the man laughed. He wore a colombina, and she could see his white smile. "An intellectual woman? My, this is a delightful surprise. Thou wast beautiful before, but now thou art beautiful and interesting. May I crave thy gentle company?"

"I..." Juliet arched her eyebrows, startled by the fact that she was considered interesting rather than immoral and lacking any decorum. "Aye," she finally accepted, feeling a hot flush in her cheeks. This could only turn out so good or so bad. Despite her conviction to stay away from men who would try to make a good wife out of her or try to make her stop studying and learning, something in the way this one had spoken made her give in and concede him a portion of her time.

 

What the man did was first look for a quiet place to sit, then promise to be right back before disappearing into the crowd. Juliet swung her feet forwards and backwards, looking around. Prince Escalus' gardens were beautiful, and his plants were exhuberant with life and vibrant colours that, she had to admit, might stirr a little envy inside the young Capulet. She wondered whether Rosaline was already there, nearby without knowing, and whether Tybalt had finally felt well enough to attend the ball. The two of them were extremely close, and it made sense that Tybalt would go for the sake of making Rosaline happy and protecting her in case any gentleman proved himself not so gentle.

In fact, whenever she thought of it, she got the feeling that there was something she was missing, or rather, being left out from. Something in the way Tybalt and Rosaline looked at each other was private, and she suspected they shared something deep. She wondered whether they could be in love. After all, they were distant cousins, and their marriage would not be reprehensible. While she gave it a thought, she watched the skies and tried to recognise any constellation, but there was a big difference between seeing spots of ink on the paper and watching small lights in the sky, and she struggled to recognise Ursa Minor.

"See, my lady? There shines Cassiopeia, the beautiful bride of Perseus." The man was back, holding two delicate cups. "But no rival to thee." 

Juliet grabbed the glass she was offered with a small smile, and held it between her hands. It was cold to the touch except for the base, where the man's fingers had been. Tybalt and she had sneaked enough drinks from lord Capulet that she knew, from the smell, what it was. It was not a particularly strong beverage, but she still took a measured sip and set it down right after.

"Methinks Cassiopeia was vain and proud," she said, looking at the stranger, who nodded as he drank himself.

"She was," he conceded. "Thou art well informed, my lady. Poseidon, Greek god of the sea, punished her for her terrible arrogance, and arranged the stars so that she must be face down half of the times she could be seen."

"Men have been proud and vain throughout history oft, specially ancient heroes, and none were chastised. Why must Cassiopeia appear worse than Achilles, whose pride killed not only his men but his best friend Patroclus as well, or Jason, who repudiated his wife to marry another woman? 't is a shame that women shall be depicted as lower beings than men, when their sins are of like gravity."

The man's white mask gleamed faintly under the moonlight as he looked at her inquisitively, ducking his head. "Peradventure thou art favourable to maidens enjoying the same ways of life as gentlemen?"

Juliet clenched her fists around the end of her jewelled belt, uncomfortably rubbing the sole of her shoes against the stone floor. If the man was someone of importance and happened to find out that she was talking to Juliet Capulet, her family would be in great trouble; and even if he did not recognise her, any women daring to speak up for equal rights and treatment as those of men was to encounter, at the very least, opposition and mock. Social expectations, after all, were not to be questioned, much less by a woman. Still, her opinion was worth the same as the stranger's, so despite her quivering lip, she lifted her chin when she spoke.

"Well, I am. Women and men are born alike in ability and humanity, and 't is only what they are taught to be and behave like that must discriminate them. But women are not born being submissive and secluded in their homes, much less any husband or father's property. Ancient philosopher Plato himself defended the idea that women could posess the same wit as men, and thus could be able to rule a city just as wisely; 't is abherrant to take the opportunity to feed this intellect just because women have been born such, and men think that they shall better respond to ridiculous social expectations such as Chastity, Silence, Modesty or Obedience that they are not to follow themselves. The day men have the same social compromises as I do, I would fain obey; but until such a morrow dawns on me, I shall continue to refuse to bow down to this oppressive rule."

Frustrated, Juliet looked at her glass before taking another sip, unhappy with her speech. Once again, words betrayed her; in her mind, everything was clear, and she had extremely strong arguments to defend her posture. But when the time came to speak her mind, she found herself walking in circles, saying the same things over and over again without ever actually getting to the point. It was as easy as saying 'girls are the same as boys except for what's between their legs, and they should be treated the same way because of that', but somehow she could not bring herself to say it so simply. She was defending female intelligence, but also starting to doubt her own.

"Dost thou know that, outside the Republic of Venice, literate women are suspected of witchcraft? 't is seen as unrational that a woman shall defy the path drawn for her in favour of her needs." The stranger, who had leaned on an elbow to look at her as she spoke, reached out to curl a loose strand of Juliet's hair around his finger. "I must be morally corrupted as well, my lady, because I find not any wrong in thy opinion."

Suddenly Juliet was out of breath. She looked at him, thankful that he could not see her face under the mask. "Thou art in favour of equality?" she asked in a whisper, as though it were a forbidden thing that could earn them prosecution. Most probably, it could.

The man looked up to the moon. "Sisters I have none," he said, "and never had I thought of this issue. But after thou hath adressed it, I find that thy proposal is forsooth logical. If men and women belong in the same race, they are equals, and must enjoy the same treatment, privileges and duties. Thou art not any different from my dearest friends, and I dare say thou art cleverer than them, or than any man I have met, for that matter."

Juliet watched as he yawned then lowered his hand, which fell atop of hers. Her head throbbed slightly from the alcohol, which she had never been any tolerant to, and she did not like the slightest of blurriness that stained the edges of her reasoning. She raised a hand to rub her eye, only to realise that she could not with the mask on. As far as she knew, the masquerade only consisted of dancing, which she was terrible at, and drinking, which she was also terrible at, and she was quickly realising how little she liked these balls.

"Art thou sick?" the man asked quickly. "Come, sweet lady, for I shall guide thee inside. There is something I must like thee to see."

He offered her his elbow, and Juliet hesitated for a few seconds before accepting it. Maybe the man had accepted her ideas only because he wanted to get closer to her in a morally dubtious way, but in that case, he would not have given the argument he had. And plus, from her fights with Tybalt as a kid, she knew exactly where to hit to leave the stranger unconscious for a short time, enough to run if it were the case.

 

In the end, the stranger took her to the entrance, where he picked a candle from the floor and gave it to her. It was warm in her hands, and Juliet looked at the small light in awe. The baby fire lit the man's smile in a pleasant way, and she allowed herself a quick sideways look to enjoy it. His white teeth showing most of the time, the man guided her through the main street of Verona to the piazza and back to the palace, all the while discussing several issues Juliet found interesting enough to engage in passionate while polite arguments, able to overcome the shyness from having failed to explain herself before. The man's points made such sense that she was having a hard time not giving in to them, but a fighter as she was, she stood her ground and managed to find small incongruences she could take advantage of.

Juliet found herself smiling several times as he stripped the city's secrets for her. Anyone could see that the piazza had been designed to receive as much sunlight as possible and still offer shadowy corners in case it got too hot in the summer, but the small tales about sly street vendors and kids who liked to play in a certain spot were not that easily discovered. When they walked back, it was her turn to open up a little, and despite her stubborn hermetism, she gave away a detail or two about her life. Mainly she talked about how she had had to battle to get her _studiolo_ , the telescope she was hoping to repair with lord Severi's help and her affection for Plato's thought. All along, the man listened attentively, occasionally making small comments and asking questions. They both tiptoed around family names, avoiding giving any. Not even theirs. Juliet was not going to give him something as powerful as her name, and he seemed to reciprocate it. Still, it did not make things awkward nor difficult. Actually, she was enjoying her little anonymity, not being the powerful lord Capulet's daughter for once but rather just a witty girl with worryingly revolutionary ideas.

The moment they were back at the palace, the man seemed to find the crowd overwhelming, so he offered Juliet a hesitant hand that she was pleased to take and led her towards the gardens again. On their way, she bumped into a breathtakingly girl who was standing besides the open doors to the night, dressed in a stunning scarlet dress. "I beg thy pardon," Juliet muttered. The girl offered her a shy smile that felt somehow familiar, and that froze on her lips suddenly. Maybe sensing the trouble, the man whose hand she was holding pulled her arm and motioned towards the gardens, into which she hurried swiftly. 

"Art thou alright, my lady?" He let go of her hand, but held her gaze even tighter. 

She was still wearing her mask, so she wondered how he had sensed her trouble. "Aye," she answered. "Surprise it was. I thought I knew the maiden I accidentally stumbled upon. Besides, 't is late," she added, "and the sun will soon crawl the skies. We must bid farewell."

The stranger's smile faded for the first time that night, and something inside Juliet's chest felt sorry that she had to part. 

"My lady, I have enormously enjoyed thy company," he said. "If it be possible, it would elate me to mantain some form of contact with thee. Surely we can write letters to each other? My dearest Abram, father in heart to me, can bring me thy words. Thou must only choose a place where he will receive thy letters, and he will ensure they reach me and find an answer that is placed in the same site."

Of course, Juliet knew that she should not accept. She was intelligent enough to know that it had extremely high chances of finding a disgusting outcome, and also as strong as to live the rest of her life without regrets for having rejected the man's proposal. Still, she chose to blame it on the alcohol when she nodded. "Thy servant is to receive my letters from a woman closest to my heart than any other person at the piazza," she resolved, thinking of her Nurse and how to get her to keep quiet about the issue. "I shall convince her to help me reach thee."

When the stranger smiled and leaned forward to press a kiss against her porcelain mask's cheek, she could not prevent neither the huge grin nor the tickling sensation that spread throughout her whole body. 

 

Juliet Capulet did not like words much, so it surprised her greatly to find herself willing to spill them. It was even further surprise when, later that night, already in her gown and under the covers, she rewinded the conversation in her mind and sighed at the beautiful speech the man posessed.

Juliet Capulet did not like words much, so it was a mystery how she started falling for a poet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail feminist Juliet :D Sorry for being a day late, but yesterday I had to pick my grandma from the hospital and the day got carried away, which ended up meaning I could not write. Still, enjoy! ^^


	4. Benvolio and Mercutio

In his dreams, Benvolio took off his mask.

 

The colours were so vivid, the people swinging so fast, the laughter so felt, that he always mistook the visions for real life. When he gazed down from the stars and saw him, standing in all his disguised glory, he felt his heart skip a beat or maybe two, his chest tight with longing. His hands always itched to stroke the blond mane elegantly pulled back into a short ponytail, or to rest on the straight lines of his waist. Then they danced, the rush in Benvolio's ears definitely real, and when it happened, when Mercutio leant forward and brushed his lips against his, he felt something inside he could not quite describe. Letter after letter, he had tried to describe the elation he had experienced to Aliza, but all he had managed to produce were crumpled pieces of paper that lay scattered across the floor of his room.

But then the dreams diferred from reality. Because when he was asleep, Mercutio did not leave him, but rather lead him outside, where the dim penumbra of the night sheltered them from the rest of the world as Mercutio slowly raised his hands and took off his own mask, and then watched as Benvolio did the same. When he was asleep, Mercutio smiled at the sight of his best friend's face, and cupped it between his hands to kiss his lips once more. When he was asleep, Benvolio was not rejected, but rather taken to a Paradise the Holy Bible had not talked about, to say. When he was asleep, he was happy.

Each dawn brought a little more anguish to him, clutched his throat a little tighter as he realised that he was alone in his bed and in his life, with no Mercutio by his side to make his days make sense. Since the ball, the Montagues had not met the Prince's kinsman, for they had been too busy explaining their absence that night to Romeo's servant Balthasar and then catching up on their studies, and that made it four days waking up with an aching heart.

"What disturbs thy peace, dearest Benvolio? The arrant worry in my heart can be silenced not another minute, for I become more and more preoccupied by thy grief every second I can help thee not. Hast thou peradventure been beshrewed? Which envious spirit has robbed thy smile?" Romeo stood abruptly from across him and circled the massive wooden table to kneel besides his cousin, taking the hand that did not hold a quill between his. The look in his eyes was so troubled, Benvolio felt a stab in his heart for a different reason than who he could never have.

He was going to offer Romeo an excuse, but he found himself unable to do such thing to his cousin, his other best friend. Unable to study Latin any further for the day, he set the quill aside and rested his forehand against his palm, letting out a shivering sigh. "Canst thou believe, my dearest Romeo, that 't is Cupid that has me grieving? I warrant thee thou art not to be distraught, for this will fade over the time. Thou shall focus on thy own heart instead and the charming maiden who hast stolen it from underneath her mask."

Romeo shook his head, and snorted. "'t hath been a brave attempt, Benvolio, but I am not to be forborne from thy anguish. Thou hast been the closest to my heart ever since we were children of four, and whatever is troubling thee also troubles me. I would fain allow the Capulets' beastly nephew Tybalt to kill me if his sword killed thy demons as well. Canst thou understand? Father's favourite philosopher Aristotle quoth once that love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies; thy pain is my pain, and thy hardships are my hardships. Wilt thou allow me to help thee, share thy burden and soothe thy pain?"

Looking around at all the books neatly displayed on shelves and smaller tables, Benvolio wished he could be a character off one of them. At least his fate would be sealed for either good or bad, and not uncertain as the next shift of the wind. He felt a little like Socrates, in a way, having all the questions and none of the answers. Only, he suspected the Greek philosopher's wonders were more interesting than Benvolio's own concerns about a young man whom he knew anyway would never love him back the way he wished.

"I thank thee, Romeo," he sighed in the end, "but 't is my own business to solve. Worry not, dearest cousin, for I am to be alright." Lowering his gaze, he made it clear that he did not wish to talk about the matter any more. 

Besides him, Romeo chewed on his lip, squeezing Benvolio's hand before letting go, defeated. Benvolio could see in his tired grimace just how worried he was for him, and it pained him to be burdening his cousin with a silence and grief he did not deserve; but he knew the nature of the arrow of Cupid that had him distraught could break apart the friendship Romeo cherished the most apart from Benvolio's, and he could not bring himself to hurt him so deeply.

Although Romeo resumed his academic chores, the short conversation they had had made sure that Benvolio could not even make out the words on the paper. He just stared at them blankly until his eyes dried and he could only see blurred stains stretched across the white sheet like lazy cats lying under the sun in a summer afternoon, and then closed the book and left. In his way to his room, he crossed paths with Uncle Tiberio, who despite the evident concern in his eyes did not stop him nor say anything. His face had been inherited fully by Romeo, only lord Montague's was worn from years of being in the eye of the hurricane of the heated politics of the city. The same features contorted in worry seemed to be chasing him.

 _Sweetest Aliza,_ he wrote with a shaky hand. After closing the door and breathing in slowly, he had decided that he could as well try to write the letter he should have sent his friend days ago.

_I must advance in the first place that many were left speechless by thy fine handwork. One gentleman asked me to inform thee that thy mask-making skills rival with those of Venice's bravest masters, and I assured him I would transmit this to thee. It was also thy costume that earned me the attentions of the most treasured desire of my heart, and for that I will never be able to thank thee enough._

_How can I describe it? Thou know the object of my attentions hath never regarded me as something else than a kinsman in everything but blood, yet the past night I was approached and asked for a dance. O, how the overwhelming joy resurrected me when I had known not that I was dead inside! The mischievous little man at the service of King Oberon must have performed his tricks, for when lips met lips, there art no words that can explain what happened inside of me. I assure thee, Aliza, I was as elated as thou art besides Enoch or Dawid, or feeling Anat grow inside of thee._

_But I bear no hope in my heart any more, Aliza. After the miracle that happened four days anight, I have not met the object of my affections again, but rather the memory of the ball. I am fairly certain I was mistaken for another person, for my name was not spoken and my identity not discovered. If I had been recognised, it is sure that I would have not been danced with and kissed the way I was. It was as if I were loved back. Loved back, Aliza. Knowing the trail of hearts that have been broken by my most cherished friend and what they all wore, I know I am not likely to ever see the purest sentiment my heart has felt returned. Only, after tasting the happiness we could have had together it is much harder to turn away and leave the possibility, the memory of it, behind. It is shattering me and I know not what to do anymore. I am hopeless. The moment we see again, I will be the only one to remember what happened, for mostly alcohol acted on my beloved's behalf, and I will also have to behave as if my love had never existed nor been given a spark of hope to burst into flames._

_This letter has even ceased to make any sense, but I am in pain, Aliza. I am in so much pain, I can believe not there will come a moment when it feels better. I am in so much pain, I want to hate the person who unconsciously put me through it, despite knowing I will never be able to bear any feeling that is not love for them. Everything is in my mind, but all my body aches. Am I going mad, Aliza? Does this mean I am even more corrupted than we thought? I do not wish to live the rest of my life lying to my beloved and my cousin and suffering, sweetest friend. I do not know what to do, either. Please, tell me what to do._

_I wish I could bring you happier words, but I can make myself write not any different thing. The grief blinds me. My presence must soon meet your precious workshop, so that I can hold thee and feel that something is right in my life._

_Please take good care, and let my prayers for thee deliver blessings for thee and thy family._

_B_

He was lucid enough not to mention neither his own name nor Mercutio's, avoiding even labeling him as a man, and put the quill away the moment he drew the B, afraid that he might be tempted to cross everything out and throw the letter away. Then he sealed it and called a servant named Sampson, who promised to arrive at the ghetto and then return before supper, and was left alone again.

Something had been itching ever since the masquerade, apart from his unreturned feelings and his foul mood. Benvolio had the sensation that he was missing something important he had seen, but all he could think of whenever he remembered the night was how the kiss had been perfect and now he would spend the rest of his life craving another one. But after writing the letter to Aliza, he felt slightly less disturbed by the intensity of his feelings, and when he remembered the ball one more time, he stumbled upon a detail that made his eyes wide open. He gasped and, for a moment, forgot even how to breathe.

Because when he went out to the gardens after Mercutio left, he had seen two people he had paid little attention to. And that was precisely why he remembered them, the maidens in beautiful dresses that danced together as if the rest of the world did not exist. Tazia Zefirelli, whose father was ill and whose mask had slipped off her face when he bumped into her. Or rather him. 

For the Good Lord's sake, Benvolio had seen Tybalt Capulet dressed as a girl at the ball.

It was a mystery how he had not remembered until now; maybe it had been the alcohol and the emotion, maybe it was just a matter of how he gave priority to his feelings rather than what other people wore. But what really was important was the fact that he had seen _Tybalt_ , Romeo and Mercutio's most quarrelsome enemy and the Capulets' bravest and only young man, wearing a beautiful dress and moving with the grace of a swan rather than the brutality of a lion he had the city used to. Benvolio recalled hearing that he was closest to his cousin Rosaline than to any other person, so he guessed the other maiden was not a Zefirelli, either. The discovery made his throat sore. What was he supposed to do with this information?

It did not even cross his mind to tell anyone how they had slipped into the ball. He had done the exact same, and it would have been a high hypocrisy to have someone punished for something he himself had done. Still, he felt like the words were scratching his stomach, trying to dig their way out of him. It must be a secret, so why was he feeling eager to share it? Maybe because then they would be too busy with Tazia to suspect that he might be in love with his best friend.

Romeo's insistent knock on his door startled him.

"Ay," he said, a hand over his heart.

When his cousin stepped in, he made an effort to set aside Tazia Zefirelli and keep his mouth shut about it. He had only kept one thing from Romeo in his life, and doubling the number did not feel any good. 

"I can resist it not, Benvolio," Romeo confessed, running his hands through his hair. He had taken a seat on Benvolio's bed, looking as though he was exhausted. "If thou wilt not tell me what has befallen thee, I must respect thy silence, but I must tell thee what happened to me so that you will understand why I am being so insistent. Thou must understand that I wish to use thee not, and that I am as worried as I said I was about thee. But I pushed thee because it made me distraught from something that happened to me at the masquerade. Every time I close my eyes I can see her, beautiful like a blossoming rose, intelligent like the Ancient savants and so kind, the Heavens could crumble in envy."

Romeo falling for a girl was not anything that surprised Benvolio the smallest bit, but the urgence in his voice was so particular that he looked at him, compelled by the cadence of his cousin's words.

"What is the problem then, dearest cousin?" Benvolio tapped his fingers against the wall. "Thou talk like thou met an angel."

"And I did," answered Romeo with a surprising ferocity. "But can I trust thee not to tell anyone, beloved Mercutio, that her name is one that is not to be spoken in the house of my father? When I wrote to her, my heart took an enormous joy on having found a woman who would give me a happiness I had never dared to dream of before, but it was that same blinding glee that made me forgetful and careless enough to stamp the letter with my seal. O, Benvolio, thou canst imagine not the disgrace that has been born from it!"

Benvolio drew closer to Romeo and gently took his hands, tight around fistfuls of his hair. "Why, dear Romeo? Peradventure exists a maiden who would not like thee?"

The bitterness in Romeo's laugh was shocking. "Many, as thou hast witnessed throughout the years," he answered, "but there exists a breathtaking lady who will never love me, for I am his greatest rival, his nemesis, his mortal enemy. I am the water, and she is the fire; I am the sea, and she is the sky; I am awake and she is a dream. O, Benvolio! Thy cousin is great shame to the Montague house, for a Capulet owes my heart! She marked the symbol of our family and said in her letter that she belonged in the same house as the lord who wants me and my father gone from Verona forever. How can this be? We can never be maried, watch our children reach adulthood and grow old together, because our parents are never to allow such things. Yet it frights me to imagine a life where she is not by my side."

The tears overflowed Romeo's eyes, and Benvolio knelt in front of him to hug his shaky body. Romeo had liked many maidens before, but never had he reacted to rejection as bad as he was reacting to the impossibleness of his love now. Despite having known young lady Capulet for less than a week, Benvolio could sense his feelings ran deep already, and he was so desperate for her that, it struck him, she could have been Mercutio and Romeo could have been him. 

"No one can understand thee better than I can," he said with an ill grin, "for I foster forbidden feelings in my heart as well. Romeo, my dearest friend, thou love a Capulet, and I love a member of Prince Escalus' family. I wished to tell thee naught, for I am afeard I will be the cause of a broken friendship, but thou hast trusted me with thy grief, and I shall trust thee with mine. I, dearest Romeo..." He had to close his eyes, feeling a knot in his throat that hurt. "I have been in love with Mercutio for longer than I can remember."

None spoke after Benvolio's words for a long time. They only stared at each other as the sunlight grew smoother and duller, lost in thought. In the end, it was Romeo who talked first.

"Why did thou not tell me earlier, Benvolio?" he said softly. "Now that I am recalling my memories, thy affection for Mercutio must stretch to the early years of our friendship, for I have long failed to notice the brightness in thy gaze every time thou looked at him. Why hast thou suffered in silence all this time?"

"Being with Mercutio was no suffering," Benvolio snapped harsher than he meant. 

"But loving him in silence, so close but so far away, was indeed." Romeo swallowed and looked down to his hands. "If only I had known earlier, I could have helped thee. I could have talked to Mercutio to discover his likings, and maybe..."

"Nay," Benvolio interrupted him. When he met Romeo's eyes again, he offered him a sad smile. "I would wish not any help, for I do not love Mercutio to be loved back. I am Apollo, and Mercutio is Daphne; I will not chase him to have him leave my side forever. I love him for how he is and how he makes me feel like I matter when he is around, and I want to be besides him because he is the best man I know. I care not whether it is a romantic relationship: as long as Mercutio stays by my side, I will gladly endure whatever it takes to stay that way."

Romeo's sigh was noticeable. "Thou art the strongest man I  have met," he told Benvolio. "For I can think not of being only my lady's friend. 't is not only impossible, but also unbearable. I wish to make her laugh, and smile, and give me her thoughts on every existing matter. Nothing could I wish more than to kiss her lips; with that, I shall be blessed. My fingers ache to intertwine with hers, my heart aches to give her all my love. Not being corresponded would kill me, for what I feel is too intense to stay within the limits of friendship."

For the first time in four days, Benvolio laughed. "Patience and contention have never been among thy virtues, dearest Romeo. Thou art passionate, but thy passion must be tamed if thou wish not to be fooled by it."

Although Benvolio was ever so slightly teasing him, Romeo smiled as well. "Thou art, as usual, correct, dear Benvolio. But enough about me; I must find out more about Mercutio for thee. Worry not, for I will not reveal the nature of thy feelings, but I must give thee some certainty."

"Nay," Benvolio pleaded. "I told thee I would rather stay in the shadow."

But Romeo just looked at him with a strange smile. "We only have one life to be in the light," he replied. 

 

When Mercutio opened his window to see Romeo grinning at him, the joy was almost enough to make him forget about the slightly throbbing headache he still had after four days. Escalus had not asked him about it, but they both knew it was not necessary. Mercutio's hangover was obvious to anyone with two eyes on the face. 

"Romeo, my sweet friend!" Mercutio smiled at Romeo, his blond curls messed by the cool breeze. "Is Benvolio with thee? What have thou planned?"

"Nay." Romeo shook his head. "I come alone, and wish only to speak. We can stir trouble tomorrow, when blood, and not alcohol, runs through thy veins." With a mischievous smile, he waited until Mercutio jumped through the window to meet him, and then they walked towards the exit. The Prince's palace was big enough to cast a shadow under the afternoon light that sheltered them until they were in the street.

They walked in comfortable silence for a second, and Mercutio tried not to wince at the bright sunlight. He bought an apple from an old woman who smiled toothlessly when he gave her two golden coins, and took a good bite to have something to munch on rather than how much his head hurt. It did not work, but the apple was good. He took another bite.

"I have found the woman I shall love to the end of my days," announced Romeo. Although he said it with a smile, Mercutio was not drunk anymore, and no hangover could have stopped him from seeing the grief in his friend's eyes either. He was dying to ask, but knew better. Despite wanting to help Romeo, his head could not resist an hour on this or that lady's charms. It was already boring when he was healthy, specially because he had never found any attractive in the maidens Romeo fell for. Nor in any other, but that was, of course, a whole different matter Romeo did not have to know about. 

"Yay," he said simply. All things holy, the apple _was_ excellent. He might buy yet another one on their way back. Valentine would surely like them too, and Paris as well. He might as well acquire the whole box of fruit for the the whole palace.

"She is a Sun warming my heart from the inside," Romeo assured him. "And thou? I could not find thee at the party." His grin narrowed, turning somehow slyer. "Didst thou finally find a maiden worthy of your attentions?"

Mercutio closed his eyes and pretended to be able to block Romeo's presence for a small while, enjoying the last sunrays on his face and almost tripping over a child who ran behind his friends. But no, Romeo was still there when he looked again. "Maybe my garments were so fine, thou didst not recognise me," he pointed out. "Which is a different thing. If aught, I found a wine worthy of my attentions."

Romeo laughed, and grabbed the apple from his hand to bite it. "The day you change the bottle for a woman, it must be doomsday dawning upon us."

"And why should I do such a thing? The bottle is a fine enough companion, and I have no desire whatsoever to betray our commited relationship," Mercutio said elegantly, avoiding completely the underlying question. 

Mercutio thought about Valentine while Romeo poetically but unsufferably rambled about his lady, and how she was the next Plato. He would soon start his lessons on Rethorics, and he was afraid that he would not do good. After a long time living under the same roof as a man who systematically ignored their existence, and a woman who despised even the air they breathed, Valentine had grown used to being either not seen or spitted to. But he was brilliant. Mercutio was clever, and Valentine was ten times better than him and had better manners. If only he could believe in himself a little more, he would be unstoppable.

Thinking of Valentine and their parents meant ending up remembering things he wished not to remember, and he carefully buried the memories under the headache, which was beginning to feel almost welcome. Inhaling quickly, he peeked at his hands to make sure there was nothing maroon an sticky staining them, and then began playing with the sleeves of his shirt to distract himself.  It never worked, but he still tried with blind faith.

"...And that's why she believes we should join with other southern kingdoms to be a single nation," Romeo was saying when he tuned back in. Politics? He frowned, disgusted. Living with a Prince, he had more than enough of it at home.

"Great theory," he congratulated Romeo quickly, "and she seems very clever and graceful indeed. Peradventure thou hast found the argentine voice of reason in your life?"

Romeo laughed, with a strange gleam in his eyes. "But I thought the argentine voice of reason in our lives was Benvolio."

Mercutio's heart skipped a beat, only to take up a quicker-than-quick pace immediately afterwards. "He is, indeed," he confirmed. "Only, thou may need two argentine voices of reason. In thy case, they will be useful."

Because thinking of Benvolio meant ending up remembering a blurry image from the ball he did not wish to remember, and when he carefully tried to bury the memry under the headache, it failed. And it hurt, because Mercutio felt confused and like a traitor every time it came back. He had been drunk, but not nearly enough to kiss a girl as if she meant something to him. Much less as if she were Benvolio.

"I thought thou were my friend," protested Romeo.

"An I thought friends were honest to each other," said Mercutio, smirking.

It was highly hypocritical of him to say such a thing, and he knew. He had not been honest about his parents. He had not been honest about how he got Valentine out of a home that was choking him. He had not been honest about why Escalus allowed him to continue living at the Palace, despite the migraines Mercutio's behaviour gave him. He had not been honest about why he disliked Tybalt so much. And, of course, he had not been honest about what he liked, why he never looked at maidens. Bottles. But also something else. Close to bottles. Enough to make him feel as high by just recalling the name. Drunk with freedom.

Mercutio was a hypocrite, and he knew it. It was horrible from him, but his secrets were such for a reason. Now that he had to investigate the city's women to find the one he had unexplainably kissed, maybe he would trust Romeo or rather Benvolio with one. Even two. But selected, little ones. He bought some apples for dinner.


	5. Rosaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter this week because I'm hitting the road today and I will most probably not be able to update tomorrow. Also, Rosaline PoV because she does NOT deserve to be a ghost character >:/

No matter what she did, Tybalt would not talk to Rosaline the days after the party. Having already sensed that something was wrong when he did not utter a word on their way back, she could barely stand being left out of whatever her cousin was going through as his eyes searched for an exit that would never be there. Because Rosaline knew he could not escape his truth, no matter how hard he denied who he was inside. And she also knew he would never find peace until he realised this.

Juliet, on the other hand, had been elated for the days following the ball, only to wither after the arrival of a letter sealed with pale wax early in the morning. The girl refused as well to talk about what was happening to her, although not as adamantly as Tybalt. Her ways were gentler, less rough-edged. Still, Rosaline knew she meant to drop the subject whenever she answered to her polite questions saying how the olive tree had grown. Two cousins, two friends, and two unwavering silences. It was not something she liked.

Filled with sadness that her own family would not trust her to help them soothe their pain, Rosaline liked to turn to the memory of the ball, which appeared magic and dreamy when she recalled the candles, the music and the soft hands of a dancing partner. Indeed, she had noticed the absence of roughnesses and callouses in the man's hands as they danced, for they were different from Tybalt's, used to holding swords and fiercely unseathing them fray after fray. They were the hands of a high-ranked nobleman, of that she was certain; and it worried her indeed, for her heart's desire was to pursue the Prince's kinsman Paris' attentions even knowing that he was to marry Juliet and that her origins would always be too humble to make her worthy of him. Had she known, Juliet would have slapped her hand in reprimand that she believed herself inferior to any man because of something as impossible to choose and consequently to be judged upon as blood status or family trees, and then encouraged her dreams to grab Paris' interest some day. 

But Juliet did not know, and she did feel inferior and unable to grab Paris' interest.

It ashamed her to realise how deeply the possibility of the man not returning her incipient feelings affected her. Not usually one for lovestruck madness, she did not know how to deal with Paris' permanent presence in her mind. Worse than that, she did not know whether she wanted it to go away.

"A letter for thee, my lady Rosaline."

Shy knocks on the door made her lost her trail of thought. At the other side waited Anthony, the youngest of the servants at the service of her uncle Lord Capulet. His hazel hair was slightly messed, as if he had run all the way to her bedroom from the other end of the property, where the entrance doors stood. He bowed his head before handing her a neatly-sealed letter and disappearing down the corridor. Rosaline frowned as she examined the envelope. Only her name had been scribbled elegantly on the thick paper: _Lady Rosaline Capulet_. It had been sealed with maybe the cap of an ink bottle or a badgeless ring. There were no traces of the sender to be seen.

She did not recognise the calligraphy when she opened the envelope and started reading. 

 

_Dearest lady Rosaline,_

_I must crave in the first place that thou wilt forgive the arrant audacity with which this letter was written and sent to thee, for it is a matter of great importance I must discuss with thee. Only exceptional circumstances have pushed me to this act, and I hope thou shall forgive my wrongdoing. It is not my purpose to stir any conflict in thy family as a result of my letter, which thou shall realise when thou notice that no badge of my family has been used to seal the envelope, nor have my name or my house been mentioned anywhere. Even so, I must strongly recommend that thou destroy this words the moment thou finish reading them, for I must still fear someone may recognise me in my writing._

_What I am about to tell thee I have not told anyone else, for it was not my secret to reveal. Lady Rosaline, thou must believe me when I say that no harm wilst come to thy cousin on my knowledge. That I swear upon the seven Archangels. It is not my desire to harm thy family in any way, much less in such one._

_I believe you already know thy cousins and thee were not the only rejectors of the Prince's banishment from the masquerade, for thou must know already that Juliet encountered my dearest cousin and quickly found an interesting friend in him. Belike thou hast guessed that my presence could be encountered at the palace of Verona four nights ago, for I have been told of thy wit and quickness of thought. The truth is, lady Rosaline, I attended the ball, and not only did I see thee dancing, which I must acknowledge as one of thy most extraordinary gifts. Perchance thou wilt remember the young man talking to thy friend Tazia Zefirelli. That man was me, and I am that man._

_But thou dost not know that, shortly before thy arrival, lady Tazia's mask slipped her face to fall in my hands._

_Posessing such knowledge about thy cousin, lady Rosaline, I must confess I am clueless as to what to dispose with this information. Already I have expressed my conviction that it is not my secret to trade with, yet I would be very pleased to receive indications on how to adress thy cousin from now on. Despite firmly believing that lady Tazia would like to be adressed as such, I am aware of the terribleness that would befall her shall what I discovered become of public knowledge. Even after all the quarrels that have taken place among our families, I must assure lady Tazia that no word will leave my mouth if it be her will. This said, I would like to know her will on the matter._

_I am tired of all these constraining secrets subjugating us to others yet tearing us apart, lady Rosaline. If thou wilt pardon my indiscrecy and believe a man like me's words, nothing would I love more than to see lady Tazia happy. Since we were children of seven we have been at constant squirmishes inherited from a political war that has never been ours, and I firmly believe that this hatred it is not our legacy to claim. Beyond the loathing, there must be something else we can share some day, and I hope thou wilt believe the same. And from this belief, it might be that something beautiful is to be born._

_Benvolio Montague_

 

For the first time since the night of Prince Escalus' masquerade, Paris stood in a second place in Rosaline's mind as Benvolio Montague's words filled her head with concern and something tight and uneasy she did not know how to label. 

Someone had discovered Tybalt's secret, and it was her fault for having convinced him to go to the party dressed as Tazzia. Wanting the best for her cousin, she had ended up doing the worst he could do to him: have someone find out about him... her. Tybalt had been so pale and quiet the last days, she did not know whether he wanted to be adressed as a 'her' anymore, after the fright of the party.

How had she failed to notice that the terror draining all colour from his cheeks had been his worst fear? Tybalt's Quiet Mole had befallen him after a night of disaster. It had been her idea and consequently her fault. But the worst was, it had been her ineptitude to foresee that something like this could happen, had happened.

Then she rose from her bed, stared at her reflection on the mirror and did not take her eyes off it as she gave her own chest a harsh slap, which loosened the knot under her sternum slightly. Because it was not the time to look for culprits and play the blame game. She could do that after she found a way to solve the mess she had made.

And maybe, just maybe, she would get out of it strong enough to gather all her braveness and fight on her own behalf as well.

 

It did not take long to realise that she could not directly tell Tybalt, for he would only shut down completely and be gone the next morning. No, she needed a wiser approach to the subject. And no one was wiser than Juliet Capulet.

Still, Juliet had secrets of her own which Rosaline should know nothing about. It was dangerous to start up a conversation on the ball for many reasons; one was called Romeo Montague, another went by the name of Count Paris, and a third one was Tazia Zefirelli. As much as she ached to bare her heart to Juliet and have her backing her up as she tried to, as Benvolio Montague had said, see Tazia happy and accepting of herself, she knew she could not have that conversation with Juliet. Not without damaging more people than had already been hurt.

So she had to bite her tongue whenever she spotted her cousin and turn to her Plan B, who was no other than Benvolio Montague as well.

 

_Canst thou meet me at the Piazza Erbe anight? I must wait for thee besides the vendor of cinnamon. I beg thy answer arrives to me before the children run out to play in the streets again, after eating._

 

One of the things Rosaline appreciated the most in Anthony was the discretion with which he handled her correspondence. An hour after she sent him after a Montague servant, he was back with an answer. There was no letter this time.

"Yes," he said simply. "She said yes. That is what I have been told to say."

Rosaline understood Benvolio's witty choice of pronouns, and smiled.

"Thank you, Anthony." She cupped a hand around his cheek tenderly. "Thou may enjoy the rest of thy afternoon. I will not bother thee any further."

"Thou art no bother, my lady Rosaline," spurted Anthony as he curtsied, gone the next second. It occured to her that she should give more free afternoons to the Capulet servants, and more often. Anthony could not be the only one eager to spend some time not worrying about every desire of her family.

It was a long wait until the Sun began to set, and Rosaline had to sup for what seemed like an infinity before lord Capulet raised from the table and called it a night. Pale ghosts, Juliet and Tybalt disappeared behind their respective doors with a faint 'farewell'. Their hollow eyes were the final push Rosaline needed to change into a less flamboyant dress and sneak through the window for the second time in less than a week. As her small feet splashed in the wet dirt, she decided that the lack of remorse despite the obvious incorrectness of her actions was a good omen. Then she lifted her skirt enough not to trip over the turn-up and properly ran away.

Benvolio was waiting for her, admiring the Madonna Veronese. When she entered the piazza, he turned and curtsied with a smile.

"God save you, lady Rosaline," he greeted her. "Come, we shall look for another place, for I fear the Madonna wouldst turn envious of thy beauty were we to stay here."

"You are well met, lord Benvolio." Rosaline accepted the arm the young Montague was offering to her and, trying not to think of her parents' face had they seen her, followed him down the piazza. 

Theirs was not an uncomfortable silence Rosaline felt the urge to fill, but rather a calm quietness in which she found some rest. Benvolio Montague was a warm presence by her side, under the silver glow of the night, and for a moment she wished she could have him as a friend. Of course, it was impossible to forget that they were not meant to be anything but enemies, but she remembered his letter. And her heart ached for the promise of something better than hate.

It was not until they had reached a completely empty street that Benvolio talked again. Rosaline had not been outside the Capulet house much, so she did not recognise their whereabouts. She would have to trust him on that as well. 

"I have thought about thy cousin much," he admitted, "since the night our paths crossed. Is she alright?"

Rosaline smiled when Benvolio asked about Tazia.

"No physical harm has come to her," she said, "but rather the evil spirit of desperation. She is a mere shadow of what she used to be, and I must fear she will not recover from having been discovered by a Montague under such circumstances." Which were wearing a dress. "I fear for her long-term well-being, my lord."

Benvolio gazed at the stars aboved them, the look in his eyes impossible to decipher.

"Why is it that what makes us happy is more often than not what is bound to make us fall?" 

He wore a sad smile.

Rosaline lowered her hand from Benvolio's forearm to his hand, around which she slowly wrapped her own.

"Forgive my daring, my lord, but I sense that something of the nature of Tazia's torment has befallen thee as well. Art thou feeling alright?"

The nod was hesitant. "Ay. But let me speak not about my miseries, for we are here to take good care of someone else's. Dearest lady Capulet, there are few things in this world that could bring me more joy than watching thy cousin come to know happiness, which I understand will only appease her demons when she learns they are not such. If it be correct, I shall express my firm opinion that she must be encouraged to pursue whichever appearance makes her happy. Dresses if they make her smile. Quite regularly, it is other people's fear that will keep us from dreaming. I wish not for such a sad happening to befall thy cousin.

"It is with a single purpose that I came here tonight. Thou must bear in mind that I will do no harm to Tazia Zefirelli, under the form of either word or act. No disgrace shall find her by me. Tazia and I are alike in a way, and I could never wish not to see her free when liberty is all I have ever seeked. I must insist that my heart will always be open for thee and thy cousin. If there is anything I can do to help, please speak of it."

Rosaline squeezed his hand with hers. "O, dearest Benvolio! How could I wish for a better person than thee to have discovered Tazia's secret? It is with great joy that I hear thee call her by her name, rather than by her disguise. Still, I must wonder the reason behind thy kindness. I wish not to offend thee, and nor dor I doubt thy generousness, but 't is not every morrow that dawns with a Montague willing to aid a Capulet."

Silence fell upon them. It was longer this time. They were already on their way back when Benvolio whispered softly, "As I said, Tazia and I are alike. Her secret and mine are not so far in nature." Then he took a deep breath. "For I will never reach joy, I shall find the ghost of it through others' happiness. I recognise my selfishness on the matter, but at the same time, 't is a selfishness that aims to seek glee for others. It can be not so wrong."

A chill ran down Rosaline's spine as she realised that his last words were not for her.

 

She lied under her covers later that night, unable to fall asleep and to keep her eyes open as well. After speaking to Benvolio Montague, she had only concluded that the issues surrounding Prince Escalus' ball were greater in number and importance than she had originally thought. It was not only Tazia's panic to places full of people who could discover her, but rather fright from having been discovered by an enemy of hers. It was not only Juliet's heartbreak after having found someone she connected with and then found out he was out of reach, but rather utter loss of an unborn love for her nemesis since birth. It was not only her own longing for a Count she could never have... Okay, it _was_ only that in her case, but also the terrible duty to fix everything and everyone that had broken at the party.

Benvolio Montague was one of those, of that she was sure.

Only another member of the Montague friends remained unknown about. Rosaline had the gut feeling that he had the most trouble of them all, and also that she would better be wiser than to stick her nose into his businesses. There was a lot on her plate already. She didn't need Mercutio's problems as well.

As she slowly let herself be lulled by Morpheus, a flash of lucidity came and went as quick as lightning. It was only a moment. But she saw the solution. She saw the risk that came with it, the many things that could go wrong, the precarious alliances that would be relied on and the fragility of the bonds keeping it all together. And she also saw the hope it brought. She also saw it could be the only way to make Tazia happy and free.

Right after, she fell asleep.


	6. Paris

Something kept stirring at the back of Count Paris' mind, even if he could not figure out what it was, and it disgusted him profoundly. It had been easy to ignore at first, being in charge of giving orders to the servants so as to make sure the ballroom was left polished and stainless. Then, when the time had come to write letters to all the houses in Verona to thank them for attending the masquerade and making it a delightful soirée, the itch of the unknown had grown more bothersome. And now that it had been four days and he had no further duties than his regular tasks as the Prince's kinsman and his right hand, he could barely stand the fact that there was something he was missing.

Paris had grown used to being the smartest kid and having all the right answers, and he could not even begin to express how much it irritated him not to know what was he even looking for.

"Paris!" 

He turned only to see Valentine running towards him, a wide grin plastered on his face. The boy was noticeably less troublesome than his brother, and Paris could only remember his own childhood whenever the youth's tutors spoke about his intellect and skill with numbers. Behind him hurried another servant, or rather the son of one. He was around Valentine's age, and the Prince had allowed him to be Valentine's friend. To be precise, he had simply allowed Valentine to invite his friends to the dinner held in honour of the boy's tenth birthday and not even blinked when the servant child, dressed in one of Valentine's finest shirts and a jerkin that was no doubt hus friend's, curtsied before him as if he had not seen the Prince of Verona every day for the whole of his short life.

"How fares thou, Valentine? Good day, Cesare."

When they reached him, Cesare respectfully curtsied and stood behind Valentine, whereas the latter jumped into Paris' open arms. Since the last spring, he had grown indeed; he would soon make a fine young man. Paris could not wait to see him blossom. Some times he suspected Valentine was dearlier to him than to his own brother Mercutio.

Of course, Mercutio was always outside the palace with his Montague friends, stirring trouble in Verona, so maybe it was better to have Valentine be more alike Paris.

"Our lessons are finish'd for the day, cousin," said Valentine, "and we were wondering whether thou canst play with us? Cesare found a lady's mask yesterday, forgotten at the garden behind some bushes, and we were hoping that thou wouldst teach us how to dance with a maiden. The next time the Spring Masquerade is celebrated, we will be old enough to attend it, and we wish not to make fools of ourselves when the quartet starts playing."

Maybe he had more in common with Mercutio than Paris had realised, after all.

"Thou likest partying, my dearest Valentine?" Paris laughed and tousled his hair. "Thou wilst be the finest gentleman of Verona in no time."

"And Cesare as well! We will be the two gentlemen from Verona everyone respects and holds dearly," exclaimed Valentine. "Paris, wilst thou teach us how to dance? Wilst thou?"

It was impossible to say no when Valentine's bright blue eyes were staring into his.

 

The ballroom seemed twice as vast without the whole city dancing inside. When Valentine stumbled, his fall echoed across the room, portraits of previous Princes and Princesses staring at him as he gathered himself and rose from the floor. The heavy curtains had been pulled aside to allow sunlight inside the room. The massive columns had been decorated with ivy, and Paris felt proud of the result of a whole day of barking orders and supervising.

"Please attend upon me while I seek thy father, Cesare, for I am in posession of the knowledge relative to his musical skills. Thy apparels are adequate, but I fear thine, Valentine, will difficult thy movements."

Tugging at his laced shirt, Valentine did not answer. Instead, he started rolling up the sleeves, which was quite difficult given how tightly were the laces knotted. Cesare reached out for his left arm and helped him undo most of them, his fingers swift and experienced. Even if he was not Valentine's servant, he had been raised to be such. And he had been raised well.

When Paris returned to the ballroom, followed by Cesare's father Maurizio and two young servant girls, Valentine's shirt lay crumpled on the floor, and the boy wore only his jerkin. His arms were even paler in contrast with the leather, the same colour as Cesare and his father's ebony skin. 

"It wilth itch," Cesare was warning him.

"I care not," Valentine said. "Dance is what I care about right now, and if it means I will have to sweat in only my jerkin, so be it."

"But I can lend thee a shirt if it wilth please thee. Thy skin shall be crimson anight, Valentine, if thou dost not change into a more suitable habit."

Paris did not like the idea of Valentine dancing in only his jerkin, but he decided to let him make his mistake and reject Cesare's help. Secretly, he did not want his kinsman to wear something as base as a servant's shirt, so he wished Valentine would stick to his pride and decline the offer. It was what Mercutio would do, and he must expect the same blood to act the same.

It was a bitter surprise to hear Valentine agree to wear Cesare's shirt. He grimaced as the boy ran out of the ballroom.

Maurizio plucked the strings of his lute, insisting on one while turning the peg slowly until he obtained a satisfactory note, then cleared his throat and did a scale. Paris had to admit his voice was something he would not mind bringing to the finest events of the Venetian Republic.

"If it wilth please my lord, Count Paris," Maurizio said, watching as Cesare returned with an immaculate white linen shirt in his hands, "I shall play master Prez's _Scaramella_."

"A frottola?" Paris frowned ever so slightly, tapping on his lip with a finger. "If it be the best thou canst produce, let it sound."

"Does it fit thee?" Cesare asked Valentine. 

"Aye," Valentine answered. "I must thank thee, dearest Cesare. And now, let us dance. Gentlemen must be well-trained in the fine art of dancing."

While Paris danced with Fulvia, who took good care of the gardens in the evenings and was one of the servants he distrusted the less, Valentine and Cesare took turns to dance with ancient Scilla, who had been Mercutio and Valentine's nurse when they were fostered by Prince Escalus and was glad to assist the young boy in any way she could. Maurizio's music never faltered, unless Paris spoke to explain a movement; and soon half of the afternoon had been spent. When he called a break and Fulvia exited the room to bring some water, her blond mane shining under the setting sun left Paris breathless.

Because _then_ he remembered. He figured out.

"Zefirelli," he breathed, livid, grabbing the neck of Maurizio's lute to interrupt the music. Valentine and Cesare frowned in a single, coordinated gesture, whereas Maurizio lowered the instrument and bowed his head, ready to receive orders. Paris looked at each of them, and then snorted. "That maiden. Her name was Zefirelli."

 

It disgusted Valentine greatly that the dance lesson shall be ended abruptly, but Paris dismissed his pout with a flutter of his fingers.

"A gentleman must learn to take setbacks elegantly, Valentine," he scolded him severely when the child complained that he wanted to dance more. "It is not proper of thee to whine. Please let go of my habit. Thou must learn to behave accordingly to thy position. Men of thy status do not cry over a finished lesson, and I expect thee to complain not ever again."

Valentine did not answer, but there was a burning anger in his eyes at Paris' harsh words as he bent to pick his shirt and jerkin from the marble floor. Count Paris had more important things to worry about than a child's tantrum. A terrible suspicion had risen inside of him. His common sense said it couldnot be. But his gut whispered,  _Or can it?_

Prince Escalus' room was in the opposite wing of the palace, at the end of the long corridor leading to the royal family's rooms, but he traversed the endless halls with quick, light steps, hurrying when he spotted the Prince's silhouette not far ahead of him. Paris had practiced his speech in his mind as he walked, and so the words flowed from his mouth.

"Hail to thy grace, my Prince Escalus," he breathed, trying to regain composure. His voice faintly quivered due to the small run. "I wish not to trouble thee, but there is something I must speak of with thee immediately." In case any disloyal servant was nearby, he leaned forward an whispered, "My concerns are on the Capulet house."

Escalus looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded and led Paris to his rooms. They were surprisingly modest for the Prince of Verona, the warmth of the wooden furniture contrasting against the golden walls. Escalus invited him to take a seat, motioning towards an oak chair, and stood facing the big window besides the bed, his back turned on Paris. A brown-furred cat slid besides him, and the Prince scratched the space between its ears absent-mindedly. He simply waited for Paris to start talking.

"I must fear that a Capulet girl disobeyed thy commands and sneaked into the masquerade, my Prince," Paris began. "It is not my wish to seek trouble for her, for I myself danced with lady Rosaline and enjoyed her sweet attention, but it is my duty as a protector of Verona's best interests to ask thee about another maiden who was at the ball with her. Zefirelli is the house she said she belonged in, and her sweet face went by the name of Tazia. Dost thou know of any lady Tazia Zefirelli who has come to Verona recently? Lady Rosaline insisted that she was originary from Trieste, a distant cousin who had come to visit lady Rosaline's father in no less than his deathbed."

He waited for the Prince to speak. It took a long time.

"Why art thou worried about the young Zefirelli maiden? It surprises me to hear thou art paying attention to a lady besides lord Capulet's beautiful daughter," he said at last. "Fear not, Paris. No trouble will befall Rosaline Capulet. It is natural that a young girl her age shall desire to attend a ball, and she is not an active part in the dispute between her family and the Montagues. She is not to be punished for a hatred she does not stir."

It was not the answer Paris had expected. He thought carefully for a second, trying to figure out how to gently push the Tazia Zefirelli issue without revealing his deepest suspicion.

"Surprise seized me," he slowly said at last, "when I saw lady Rosaline. Not only because of her astounding looks and gentle manners, but also because of her company. Lack of company, if I must be precise. It must have reached thy ears that she rarely ever leaves the house of her uncle, as is expected from a virtuous lady of her age and condition, but it is always her cousin Tybalt Capulet that walks with her whenever she goes outside those walls. All Verona is aware of the rapport between the two cousins, so close that one could think Tybalt and Rosaline were born a single soul. It was a big surprise, indeed, to find her not besides her quarrelsome cousin but rather accompanied by a maiden about whom nothing is known."

This time, Escalus' answer came immediately.

"Tybalt's absence is nothing that must worry thee, Paris. Or were thou willing to see another of my subjects disrespect me in my house by breaking my law? I believe lady Tazia and lady Rosaline were having a night for themselves, only girls having innocent fun at a ball. Nothing else, nothing less. Tybalt Capulet did not attend the ball, for thou wouldst have seen him at some point or besides lady Rosaline, if it be true that they shall be so close, and he will reasonably not be admonished for complying with my command. As for lady Zefirelli, I do not see the reason why we should prosecute a young lady whose only wish is to honour her dying uncle. Avaunt, Paris, and worry not for the law concerning the Capulets any further. That is my duty as the Prince of Verona, not thine as my kinsman."

Hurt, Paris curtsied and left without any further word. Something in Escalus' tone had been overly protective. There was something Escalus was keeping from him, and as his longlife right hand, it was painful to know that he did not trust him with all the truth any more.

But Paris was convinced of something. Lady Tazia Zefirelli's mystery was something bigger than it might appear before the ruler's eyes. There had been something in her eyes, a certain fear, that Paris knew meant she hid a terrible secret. 

He might be only the Prince of Verona's kinsman, and only a Count to the city. But it was still the homeland of his father, and of the father of his father, and of the father of the father of his father. It was the city that had seen him grow into a man, held his hand as he walked his first steps in the world, and it was the treasure he had always protected. Paris loved Verona. And he was not going to let anything nor anyone do the slightest harm to the city. Neither physically, nor morally.

If it meant protecting Verona, he would risk his honour to dig deeper and try to unbury Lady Tazia's secret. Then he would judge whether he must expose it or not, whether it posed a threat to  his home. Any moral deviation or dirty family secret that could disturb the peace would be eradicated. He would make sure it was.

Even if Verona was not aware, Paris would keep it safe.

 

"Count Paris! It is a great pleasure to receive a visit from thy Highness." 

Lord Capulet curtsied, then stepped aside and allowed him inside his house. Paris had been to the Capulets' home before, mostly to cultivate the good relationship with the head of the family that he hoped would put the odds in his favour when he asked for lady Juliet's hand officially, and so he knew the way to lord Capulet's studiolo, where he liked to receive his visits and discuss any matter that shall be brought to him. It was a big room with many windows, so full of light that Paris blinked when he stepped in, and the books lord Capulet posessed were neatly arranged on shelves. Some bird feathers had been disposed inside a pot, an indeed curious decoration for his table. 

"Such a honour this late in the day fills me with joy, for I did think not that the grace of thy presence would meet my house this day," lord Capulet said as he sat across him. "What brings thee to my home?"

Paris smiled politely. "The honour is mine, lord Capulet. Is thy daughter well? Her beauty is already talked about vividly in the streets of our Verona."

"Indeed she is," the man nodded. Around his eyes, small crumples framed his dreamy look as he most probably thought of his daughter. "My sweet Juliet will soon reach the age of fourteen. She disposed that no man shall court her until she comes of that age, and I must respect her wish. But thou dost know that I support thy love for her, my Count Paris."

Happy that he found such facilities in his way to conquering Juliet Capulet's heart, Paris smiled. "I am honoured to hear that thou wouldst like to some day be family to me. It is the health of thy brother that has brought me here, for it has reached my ears that lady Rosaline's dearly father's health suffers severely."

Lord Capulet opened his eyes wide. "It leaves me speechless to know that our presence is heavy in thy thoughts, my Count," he managed at last. "But my brother is well. No problem has befallen his well-being, and I must fear the information given to thee was... Not correct."

Cold crept into Paris' cheeks as he realised that Rosaline Capulet had lied to him. And if she had lied about the reason for lady Tazia Zefirelli's presence in Verona, then the mysterious maiden's appearance was even more concerning. It could have only been a maiden visiting a friend, indeed, but if so then lady Rosaline would not have lied about something so normal. Darker reasons must be behind Tazia Zefirelli's sudden presence. He could not imagine which, but the frighted look in her eyes when he spoke to her was proof enough that he was right.

He smiled to Lord Capulet, whose unease at his silence was evident, and rose.

"Then I shall sleep soundly tonight, for now I know thy family is well. If thou wilst allow me, I wish to salute lady Juliet before leaving thy most noble house."

"Of... Of course, my Lord," stuttered lord Capulet.

Paris bowed his head and exited the man's studiolo, walking swiftly towards Juliet's room. He knocked on the door, which opened with a creaking sound. It was not a room. It was another studiolo.

Juliet Capulet's studiolo. 

She was nowhere to be seen, and the window had been left open, a cool breeze blowing from the gardens. Paris stepped inside and closed the door behind him carefully, then looked around. The young maiden had far more books than her father, and he presumed they were not scattered around just to make Juliet appear intelligent. He knew she _was_ extremely witty. She did not need to pretend.

Someone opened the door behind Paris and he startled, turning quickly.

"I was looking for thy cousin," he informed gently, a wide smile slowly spreading across his face like thick, sweet honey. "Maybe thou canst help me, Tybalt Capulet."

Tybalt stared at him for a second, then nodded and turned.

"Of course, my Count Paris. My cousin is talking to my dearest Rosaline, cousin to her and to me, and peradventure she forgot to close the door of her studiolo. I must inform her of thy presence. Please wait here, for I will bring her outside for thee."

Tybalt's hands were together behind him as he walked besides Paris. But it was useless. When he turned to curtsy as he pushed the door to another room open, Paris saw it anyway.

In his hands, Tybalt Capulet held lady Tazia Zefirelli's mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cesare is such a cutie patootie istg


	7. Mercutio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Also, in case anyone wonders later, 'Zikinak' means 'dirty' in Basque.

Mercutio had always known Paris was not to be trusted fully. Despite the worship in Valentine's eyes every night, when Mercutio read to him and Cesare and bid them farewell, Mercutio was conscious that the same love misted his brother's eyes when it came to Count Paris. Why, Mercutio could not understand, for he had always found Paris slightly stiff. For Valentine, he had always secretly hoped he would turn out to be wrong. Maybe Paris would appear a man worthy of his brother's affections, after all.

But instead he turned out to be right.

Escalus' booming voice as he warned Paris to drop the Zefirelli matter had been enough for him to understand that Paris was stirring trouble with someone, somehow. And, as much as he loved stirring trouble, Escalus' tone made it clear that this was not a trouble worth stirring. 

Escalus guarded secrets from many people, secrets that were such for a reason. And Mercutio knew better than anyone that he would not give them up easily. Paris could sit and wait, for all that mattered, because Escalus would not let out a single word of what he knew about Tazia Zefirelli and her presence in Verona.

With a yawn, Mercutio lazily walked away, rubbing his temple. His head hurt slightly. The alcohol. Always the alcohol.

Before leaving the royal palace, he dropped by the kitchen to swipe a glass of good wine.

 

As agreed, Benvolio was waiting for him outside the royal palace. He did not hear Mercutio arrive, busy with a few children. They were playing some silly game, and had managed to have Benvolio take part. A girl jumped opening and closing her legs alternatively, and when she stopped, standing in only one leg, Benvolio threw a dice and started jumping as well. Lucky, he stood on both legs as he waited for his next turn. His chocolate curls bounced as he turned his head to watch the small, pudgy kid behind him advance.

"Benvolio Montague, or Verona's worthiest babysitter. Can tell the difference not," Mercutio said with a grin, approaching his friend.  

"Mercutio!" Benvolio knelt to look at the children. " _Spiacente_ , but I have business to do. It has been my pleasure to play with thee, Renata, and thee, Giuseppe, and thee, Angelo."

"Wait!" Renata tugged at Benvolio's sleeve as he stood from his crouched position, and he tilted his head, confused. "Who will have thy turn?"

Mercutio laughed as Benvolio opened and closed his mouth, clearly not knowing what to answer. He finally waved to someone behind Mercutio. Valentine and Cesare raced past, down the stairs of the palace.

"Good morrow, Benvolio!" exclaimed Valentine. Then he pouted. "Paris wilst not dance with us, and he promised! Perchance thou wilst play with us for the remnants of the evening?"

"Thou find thy interests in dancing?" Mercutio whispered to himself, feeling something bittersweet in his tongue. He did not know Valentine wanted to learn to dance. He would have been elated to teach him.

But Valentine had not told him, and now Mercutio could only wonder whether he was being good enough as a brother to him. Then he closed his eyes, feeling something thick in his throat as he opened and closed his hands. All was well. Surely Valentine had told him, but he had not heard or simply forgotten.

"Good morrow," repeated Cesare, smiling widely. "Canst we play?"

"I was anon going to ask thee the same," answered Benvolio. Relieved, thought Mercutio, that the solution had literally come to him. "These are my dear friends Renata, Giuseppe and Angelo. We were playing, but I must avaunt with thy brother, Valentine, and I was wondering whether thou two wouldst like to take my turn to jump."

Renata giggled when Cesare nodded enthusiastically.

"Of course," Valentine said, looking at his friend and smiling. "Gentlemen must always be eager to please others."

"Aye," added Cesare. "Valentine and I are fine gentlemen, and will be honoured to play with thee, Renata, Giuseppe, Angelo."

He bowed his head to all of them. Renata's cheeks were bright red.

"Very well." Benvolio stood, and clapped his hands together. "I shall ask for the outcome when I return."

"I will win," said little Angelo. "I will win for thee, uncle Benvolio."

"No, _I_ will win!" Giuseppe folded his arms across his wide chest and looked at Angelo. "Thou art no rival to me. None of you are."

"Thou wilst be defeated today," announced Renata. "For I will win."

Benvolio could barely muffle his laughter as he joined Mercutio. His eyes gleamed, amused. Mercutio looped an arm around his shoulders.

"Uncle Benvolio? That is new."

"Ay. For me as well. Angelo Carusso's real uncle died some months ago, and I suspect he has appointed me for the vacancy."

As they walked down the street towards the Piazza Erbe, Mercutio stared as his friend. Mercutio had barely recognised the little boy, not known about his family and much less about his uncle's death. But Benvolio had. How he could be of a such good disposition, he did not know. Having him by his side, he felt fortunate.

 

"I wilst explain thee the reason why I have summoned thee," Mercutio said when they finally stopped. Benvolio sit on a stone bench, whereas Mercutio splashed some water from the fountain on his face. "Thou art aware of my presence at Prince Escalus' last masquerade; it was a pact among us and Romeo that we must attend the ball in disguise. Of course, the Prince made sure that no less than the best wines of Verona would be served, and I, uh, well..." He frowned.

"Thou helpedst check the quality of the beverages," said Benvolio kindly. Mercutio chose to ignore the smirk on his lips.

"Exactly. It is my duty as a gentleman." Mercutio dropped besides Benvolio, running his wet hands through his hair. "It seems like the wines were good, indeed, for I lost control slightly. What I am to tell thee hath been told not to any other person," he warned. "I expect thee to keep my secret."

For some reason, Benvolio seemed to stiffen, and writhed his hands. "Of course."

"I kissed someone," Mercutio confessed. "A maiden, I seem to recall. I know not who it was, but I remember she appeared an angel before my eyes. 't is not my heart's desire to give any hope of an engagement to this lady, nor do I wish to make her hope for a gentleman who will return some day to be with her. She spoke my name, and now it is with no masks that I must find her to apologise."

Benvolio's voice was unexpectedly shaky.

"Apologise? On behalf of what?"

Mercutio stared at him, incredulous. He had expected Benvolio to understand.

"Why, for giving her hope. What else if not?"

It took some time for Benvolio to answer.

"Alright," he said with a choked voice. "Alright. I will help thee find thy mysterious maiden. 't is what a friend wouldst do, after all, and I take pride in being called a friend of thee."

 

Verona seemed much bigger to Mercutio now that he was looking for someone specifically and not just getting wasted at some pub or at the piazza with Romeo and Benvolio. Benvolio was by his side indeed, but Mercutio had noticed how he spoke little and smiled even less. The corners of his lips hung gloomily as he stared at the floor. Never before had Mercutio seen such deep wrinkles traced in his forehead, and they worried him. So much, he could not understand it. It was simply not natural to see his best friend, someone of an exceeding benevolent nature, in a mood so dark.

But Benvolio refused to speak of what was troubling him, and Mercutio did not want to push it. He knew better than that. Respected Benvolio too much. So he tried to cheer him up instead, his intellect sending all the anecdotes and witty remarks it could produce to his mouth as soon as it came up with either. 

"Ah, I have visited not this part of the city for a long time! Dost thou remember Cioccolato? Thou and I found her here, in the dark penumbra of this alley, three years ago."

That seemed to finally grab Benvolio's attention. He raised his gaze and smiled, nodding.

"Aye. Rain was pouring heavily upon our heads, and we were running to thy cousin's palace when thou heardst her debile meows. How is she now? It afflicted me not to take her with Romeo and me, but thou dost know how the most terrible of illnesses befalls my uncle in the presence of cats. I still miss her every morning when it dawns, and every night when it falls."

Happy that his friend's mouth had finally found a curve different from that of a grimace, Mercutio clapped his hands together. "My dearest cousin Escalus, Prince to this noble city, took her in; that, thou didst know already. Cioccolato returns his affections, and only Alexander the Great and Bucephalus have been as close as they are. Some days, when Escalus is feeling overly gloomy or distressed, he wilth give audience only with Cioccolato on his lap. It was most reasonable to suppose that Valentine would take it upon himself to spoil the cat, but Escalus has turned out to be a more loving owner than my dear brother." 

Laughter from Benvolio's lips eased the unease Mercutio had been feeling for a while. Noticing a restlessness he had not been aware of until it loosened its grip, he bit his lip and stared at the cobble stone road under his feet. Not that he was going to begin making distinctions between his two best friends, but he was fairly sure he had never felt anything alike when Romeo disappeared inside his room for whole days, afflicted about an unreturned love. Maybe because he had grown too used to Romeo's afflictions about unreturned loves. In fact, he had lost count after the Gianlucca sisters' disaster with the pond and the green beret.

"God save thee, my sweet lady." Ahead of Mercutio, Benvolio curtsied and kissed an old woman's hand, pressing a polite smile against her parchment skin. "Thou shine in beauty today, mistress Papavero. Perchance thou canst help us?"

The woman laughed the way people who are aware that they are being praised purposely, and enjoy it all the same, do.

"Dear Benvolio! Thou hast made a brave gentleman, eh? If it be in my power, I must help thee. My most beloved grandson Angelo hath gathered the most happiness I have seen in a face so young and so suddenly struck by misery from playing with thee, never ceasing his talk about thee. Deep was his love for his uncle, and equally deep his grief. But thou hast returned the glee and light to his face, and I shall help thee in any way I can in return."

Flattered, Benvolio bowed his head.

"There is nothing to be thankful for, my lady Papavero. Thy grandson is a sweet young man, and nothing pleases me more than to play with him. Still, I have a question to ask thee, and I hope it wilth not abuse thy gentle offer of help. Peradventure thou knowst about any maiden that is looking for someone she met at the Prince's ball?"

The chances of her knowing anything were slim, and after hours of asking and being given negatives in response, Mercutio knew better than to be hopeful. Denial from the lady's lips was not unexpected.

"Nay." Her chapped lips curved into a smile. "Tell me not thou hast met the love of thy life, Benvolio! O, dear, I am so happy for thee!"

Mercutio expected Benvolio to get away with easy laughter, but instead he stumbled upon his friend's blank face. Dazed, Benvolio stared at the old woman and then dropped his gaze to the cobble stones.

"It is not the love of my life I am searching for," he said a second too later. "Only a dear friend. But I thank thee, lady Papavero, for thy help." After curtsying again, he walked past Mercutio, grabbing his arm and pulling him along as he undid their previous steps. The slightest frown wrinkled his forehead. 

With every passing second, Mercutio grew more certain that there was something troubling Benvolio, something he had not told him about. But he still knew better than to ask.

When they arrived at the Piazza dell'Erbe, crowded as it usually was until the very midnight, Benvolio finally let go of him and sighed. He bowed and splashed some water from the fountain on the face, then rubbed his nape with wet hands. Then he pinched his nose, and sighed again.

"Alright. Alright. If Lady Papavero doth not possess any knowledge about thy mysterious maiden, then I must be fairly unsure anyone does. No gossip can survive unknown by this woman."

"Worry not, Benvolio. Thou look anxious. I will think of something, ask around. Surely enough, this charming maiden must appear sooner or later." A stormy look flashed briefly in Benvolio's eyes, almost fast enough that Mercutio could not see it. Only almost. "Benvolio, art thou feeling well? Thou lookst troubled."

Around them, some children played tag. One of them shoved past Mercutio as he ran from a girl with braids the colour of the midday sunrays. When he tripped over his own feet, Benvolio bent forwards and grabbed his pudgy arm.

"Careful," he said gently. "Go, or thou wilst be it!"

" _'_ Permit the children to come to Me; do not hinder them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.' Jesus Christ or Benvolio? One canst tell not." Mercutio smiled half-heartedly. 

"My mind has become aware of how Aliza's birthday is due soon." Benvolio shook his head. "I must find a present for her, or else I can never forgive myself. I beg thy pardon, Mercutio, but our paths shall part."

"If thou wanst to, I can go with thee," Mercutio offered. But Benvolio shook his head.

"Nay; thou must look for thy lady."

"Please, Benvolio. No thing has come clear yet, and I must suppose not that, alone, I will be able to do what thou and thy network of friends have not accomplished. Besides, thou knowst I possess an extremely good taste." He pursed his lips mockingly. "I might be more useful than thou thinkst."

It seemed like Benvolio would decline the offer again for a terrible moment, but then it passed away. His clouded face brightened, and he reverted to being Mercutio's friend instead of a sad man. "Alright," he finally said, nodding. "Let us seek the most special present for the most special girl."

"Most special girl? So _she_ is the love of thy life, eh?" Mercutio elbowed him playfully.

Benvolio shook his head, leading him down a narrow street. "Nay. For many years, Aliza Ben-Dov and I have been friends, and she is one of the people I hold closest to my heart. Besides, her marriage to a man named Enoch is to culminate in the birth of a child soon. Only elation and genuine happiness seize my heart when I think of the family she is forming with another man."

Ben-Dov sounded Jewish enough to explain why Mercutio did not know of Aliza's existence.

Free of any doubt, Benvolio marched towards a small shop at the end of the alley, where it stank like incense and thick smoke. It was dark inside, as little light could pierce the barrier of dust and dirt staining the windows. As he covered his nose with his sleeve, Mercutio wondered why on Earth would Benvolio ever enter such a place willingly. Good Lord, the smell. It was terrible.

He needed a drink.

"May the Father bless thee, my lords." An incredibly small, rounded and wrinkled man appeared behind a tiny counter. His crooked smile was enough to give Mercutio the chills. This was the kind of filthy hovel even he would avoid. Something ran from one end of the room to the other, and his stomach back-flipped as he prayed that it would not be a cockroach. Anything but a cockroach. Mercutio did not like cockroaches.

But Benvolio did not look any troubled. "Good morrow, Zikinak. Thou dost have stars of David, dost thou not?"

"David's star!" There was a slightly uncanny accent to this man's speech, which Mercutio could not quite place. "Yes, yes. Of course. Zikinak has every thing thou canst wish for. But I see a cross hanging from thy neck, my lord. Perchance thou wouldst like better my collection of fish jewellery? Fine pieces they are. Wood, glass. Ebony."

"Nay." Benvolio held the man's gaze until the latter looked away. "Stars of David, I said."

"Right, right. Of course. Zikinak wilst show thee David's stars. Please, my lord, wait here."

While Zikinak disappeared behind a creaking door, Benvolio ran a finger down a big pot containing dried flowers. It came off dirty with dust. He was so out of place, looked so foreign among all the filth and the shadows, that it felt wrong. Somehow, Mercutio felt guilty.

"Here." Zikinak came back, holding several necklaces. "Various models. Simple, solid." He raised his hand to show a sober symbol of the Jewish faith. "Coloured." Blue, green, black and jade stars. "With precious stones." The rubies must be false. "Two parts."

"Wait," said Benvolio. He offered the palm of his right hand in demand. "Two parts?"

Eyes gleaming with malice, Zikinak handed him one of the necklaces. Two of the tips were attached to two different cords, instead of one. After pressing the tips apart, Benvolio was left holding two triangles.

"Two, two. Of course. Zikinak sells only the best. These are two necklaces that, together, form David's star. Perfect for young couples, friends, lovers, parents and children. Silver."

Mercutio did not buy the silver thing for a second. He hoped Benvolio did not, either. 

His friend examined the necklaces a little more, and then fished a handful of thick coins from his pocket. "Here. I will have these."

"Good, good. Of course. Zikinak is happy to close a deal with thee, my lord." He took the money with greedy fingers, and bowed his head. "Zikinak wilth always open his doors for thee, my lord."

"Have a good evening," Benvolio said, opening the door. Happy to be led outside, Mercutio scurried through it at Benvolio's signal, and then sprinted towards the end of the street. He closed his eyes and let himself be bathed in sunlight until he felt less dirty.

"Most probably, it wilth not be silver," he warned. Warm and relieved, he patted his cheeks. "And the cord might break in no time."

"I know," answered Benvolio, and shrugged. "Precisely the reason why I will be visiting my friend Luca, the finest jeweller in the Republic of Venice. This terrible cord must be replaced, and the star plated. Aliza's present must be not any less than marvellous, and I must rest not until I have ensured it wilth not."

"Thou saidth she was married?" Mercutio opened one eye to look at Benvolio. "Then I shall presume that it is thy intention for the star to be shared with her fine Enoch."

A shy smile blossomed in Benvolio's lips. "Aye. How hast thou guessed?"

It was Mercutio's turn to shrug. "I know thee well."

Benvolio stared at his own feet for a second, mumbling something to himself. Whatever he said whenever he looked in such direction, his shoes must find it extremely interesting. Then he turned and cleared his throat.

"It wilth soon be dark. I must visit Luca before the day is over, and for that I must hurry."

Under the last sunrays, Benvolio's skin was doused in a colour somewhere between orange and golden. All of a sudden, Mercutio wondered whether Guardian angels really existed. Then he wished desperately for a jar of anything strong. A burning liquor down his throat could not hurt.

"Thou leadst."

"It is not mandatory that thou come," warned Benvolio. "Thy brother must be looking for thee."

Mercutio chewed on his lower lip. "Art thou sure? Wilst thou be fine?"

"Aye," he nodded. Then he offered a brief smile. "I am not a child of four, dearest friend. It hath been long since I learnt the worst monsters live not under my bed. Farewell! We shall part now."

True, he was not a child of four. Indeed. But he was _like_ a child of four, afraid of something. Only, Mercutio knew it was not something as trivial as darkness. Monsters living not under his bed. Since a long time ago.

He still knew better than to ask.

 

On his way back, Mercutio decided to take a shortcut through the street that led to the Capulet house. Besides the fact that it would save some time, never was the hour too untimely to annoy his dear nemesis Tybalt Capulet. Luckily, he would come across some interesting intrigue.

Humming a frottola he vaguely remembered from the ball, he turned around a corner and tiptoed to take a look at the house, surrounded by a medium-sized wall. Voices came from a set of open windows, and right when he was about to wander away, he recognised Paris'.

"Please thank thy uncle for his help, lord Tybalt," Paris was saying. 

Despite the extreme politness, something was wrong in his voice. There was a certain triumph, which Mercutio's gut suspected did not have anything to do with Juliet Capulet's heart. And Paris was only ever happy when he messed with other people. Specially with other people's private lives and secrets. 

Nothing sounded more attractive to Mercutio than to find out a thing or two about Tybalt Capulet's private life and secrets. Everyone had some skeletons in the wardrobe, and he would be elated to meet Tybalt's bony friends.

So he waited for Paris to exit the Capulet household, hidden among the shadows of a nearby alley, and followed him through main streets straight to the Prince's palace. It was almost a pity that he was not heading anywhere more interesting, and as he waited for a minute to pass before walking through the gates so as not to arise suspicion, he sighed. It had been silly of him to expect anything exciting from Paris. Still, he could not shake off the feeling that Paris was into something. Something juicy, worth his precious time and even more precious attention span.

Door after door and hall after hall, Mercutio swiftly looked for Paris, listening carefully for any trace of his voice. Half a palace later, he had almost given up, and was walking to Valentine's room to bide him farewell when he heard Paris' voice coming from the end of the corridor. Something had altered him. It sounded like someone's ego had been hurt.

Glad to have something to munch on, he crouched and listened carefully.

"...man, and the moral well-being of Verona is at stake, my Prince! How canst thou ignore the nature of what I have revealed to thee? I must insist that my suspicions relative to Tazia Zefirelli's sudden appearance are wrong not. That mask I would recognise anywhere. It is not evident at first sight, but I strongly believe my hypothesis is right."

"Hypothesis are such because they have found not any support in the empirical world, Count Paris." Escalus' voice was sharp. "Earlier in the day I asked thee for this, and now I must make it an order from thy Prince and Lord: stay away from lady Tazia Zefirelli and any thing or person related to her. Stay away, Paris, and forget about it, or I will ensure that thy title is lost together with the possibility of lady Juliet Capulet's future falling in thine hands. No sane person would prosecute a young maiden the way thou insist on prosecuting her. I appeal to thy sanity, Paris, the way our shared blood is appealing to me in this moment. And I warn thee one last time. Stay away."

Prince Escalus' voice was final. Mercutio scrambled to his feet, sprinting towards his bedroom and slamming the door shut mere instants before Paris' footsteps echoed through the long corridor. Close call. His chest rose and fell irregularly, and he dropped to his buttocks as he tried to gather his breathe again.

He closed his eyes.

It would make sense.

From what he had heard, he could guess lady Tazia was not from Venice.

That would explain why no one knew her.

That would not explain why she knew his name, but after a whole afternoon of searching, it became irrelevant before his eyes. Most surely, she had heard of him in the streets.

Aye.

He sighed with relief.

Because now he finally had a name.

His mysterious maiden must be Tazia Zefirelli.


	8. Rosaline

It afflicted Rosaline deeply that Count Paris shall not recognise her, much less pay her any attention, when he momentarily stepped into the Capulets' garden to kiss Juliet's hand and wish her a night of sound sleep. Of course, she was not stupid, and she had known which were Paris' intentions regarding to her cousin for a long time. But she was not experienced in the field of love either, and it surprised her to discover the little control she had over her own feelings, her own teeth piercing her lower lip or her own stomach sommersaulting back and forth as Paris' hair gleamed under the last afternoon sunrays.

"Thou seemst distraught, sweet Rosaline," said Juliet, reaching for her hand. "Art thou well?"

"Aye." As she spoke, Rosaline turned her face so that Juliet would not see the blatant lie written all over her face. "Only, the day hath been extenuating. 'T is with open arms that I welcome the night, for she shall bring me some rest. But art thou not happy? Count Paris came to commend to thee. Methinks that it ought to please thee."

The seemingly innocent question burned in her throat like a strong liquor, for Rosaline already knew that the nature of Juliet's feelings for Paris was not in any aspect similar to her own's. Indeed, she knew who owned a part of her cousin's heart that grew bigger with every breaking dawn and stronger with every falling dark; but she could not bring herself to reveal this to Juliet, for some unknown reason. There had been no secrets between them until an eleven-year-old Tybalt in tears bumped into Rosaline one night, and after that, there had never been more than one secret between the two young women.

An unknown shyness misted Juliet's eyes at the question.

"Politeness is always received with grace," she finally said. "And Count Paris is very polite, indeed."

"Thou hast answered my question not." Rosaline took Juliet's hands in hers. "Please, wouldst thou do me the honour of allowing some advice of mine to caress thy beautiful ears? Hear my words, sweet Juliet: 't is thy heart, ultimately, that wilth beat for thee; always please him first, and then others second. Care for thy family and care for thy friends, dear cousin, but in the end, care for thyself first. Let others not come before thee, until someone appears who is willing to do the same for thee. And when this person comes, make the impossible possible to keep them by thy side, for only our Lord's Love can ever be of such purity. But before thou put someone else first, make sure thou art put first as well."

There was something in Juliet's eyes Rosaline could not recognise as she stirred to look at her. The stone bench under them had been warm when they took a seat, but when Rosaline's fingertips brushed an unseated-on corner, they only found the fading memory of a ray of light.

"If I did not know thee, methings I would take thee for an expert in the discipline of love," Juliet answered. "Quite a riddle of a lesson, dost thou think not? Art thou advising me to look for a man who wilth love me as much as I shall love him, even beyond sanity and self-preservation, or art thou advising me to put myself first no matter who is my heart willing to put first?"

With the tip of her soft beaded shoes, the ones Tazia had worn to the ball, she dug into the dirt a little while thinking about her own words. "Methinks I am advising thee to ensure thy love of thyself is never surpass'd by thy love for a man," she finally said. "And to always choose thee over anyone else."

"It certainly sounds slightly egoistic," Juliet pointed out. "Is it not a sin?"

"Forsooth it is," Rosaline conceded. "But I talk not of material egotism. Rather of gaining consciousness that no one can ever care more about thy well-being than thou dost, and that it would be advisable to always have respect and love for thyself. Even if others are willing to love thee like I or Tybalt are, no other can know thee better and still love thee for what thou art."

Two birds chirped at each other from different branches of the olive tree, and they sat in silence and listened to them. The beauty of it amazed Rosaline suddenly, in a dizzying rush. It was one of the simplest yet more beautiful pieces she had ever heard, and the birds had studied not any kind of composition nor interpretation. Their music was lovely precisely because they had not. Having read the Bible often enough, Rosaline knew that no animal had a soul. Still, listening to the birds, she could have sworn they did.

 

She also knew that lying was not something to be fond of, but rather a sin to be regretful about. Still, she did not go to bed when she entered the room, as she had promised to Juliet. Instead, she set a quill, some ink and a piece of elegant parchment on her bureau, and took the candle Anthony had lit for her as well. That same Anthony had already been dismissed for the day some hours ago, and thus could not carry her letter to its rightful addressee until the next morning. Rosaline rubbed her watery eyes.

 

_Dearest Benvolio:_

_Only yesterday was when I met thee, but thy kind words and wise approach have convinced me that thou art to be trusted fully on the delicate matter concerning my dearest cousin and enemy of thy house, Tybalt Capulet. It is relying on this feeling that I write to thee now, hoping that thou wilst understand the gravity of what I am about to expose to thee._

_A way to set my cousin free has reached my lucidity mere hours after talking to thee. It is an utterly dangerous business I am going to propose to thee, and it will be not wrong if thou wilst not participate of it. Still, my heart tells me I do good in counting on thee.  
_

_It is clear that Tazia and Tybalt can live at the same time not, for the survival of one means the fall of the other. To put it in simple words: Tazia can exist not until Tybalt is gone, and while Tybalt exists not only in body, but also in presence and name, Tazia can never be set free to lead her own destiny. For this reason, I beg thee for help: talk to my cousin. I have an emergency idea that I will tell thee of, shall the moment ever arrive, but first it is necessary that Tybalt speaks to thee and realises that he is not an abherrance of nature, but rather someone who hath been born in the wrong body, under the wrong name. Dearest Benvolio, I know thou art not unfamiliar with such struggles, for thou told me that thou had a similar dilemma; perhaps thy voice can arouse braveness in Tybalt, the braveness to conquer his fears._

_As eager as I am to arrange a meeting between the two of you, I must ask thee for thy permission, for I wish not to force thee to do something thou want to do not. Only with thy consent will I talk to Tybalt; and, shalth thou give it not, the possibility of this will rest buried in oblivion forever, and I shall never trouble thee again with anything related to it. So I ask: wilt thou meet my cousin, Benvolio, to take his hand and lead him to the light? I must warn thee, although methinks thou knowst already, that he is filled with shadows like a pond is filled with water._

_With hope,_

_R_

 

Then she set the quill aside and blew some air towards the last lines for the ink to dry. When the letter was safely folded, sealed and tucked inside one of her drawers, she allowed herself to fall back and rub her cheeks with her knuckles, a shy redness blossoming under her skin. Benvolio, being Romeo Montague's kinsman, had officially been at odds with Tybalt for as long as any of them could remember, and it might put him at risk to be seen talking to such an enemy of his house. Still, she had seen a man of wit in him, and hoped he would find a way to avoid such a terrible circumstance.

All that she could do had been done. It was in Benvolio Montague's hands now, and only he had some power over the fate of Rosaline's cousin. Changing into her sleeping gown and slipping under the covers, she muttered many prayers. 

In the dark, she could only hope that they would be listened to.

Nervous, unable to sleep, she muttered the names of the Archangels under her breath: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Simiel, Oriphiel, Raguel. It was Raphael's name she said over and over again, remembering that he was able to do all types of healing, and hopeful that he would make her doubts and fears be gone. Wanting to get the personal attention of an Archangel was a little ambitious, but was her purpose any less than that? "Please, sweet Gabriel, carry this message of mine to thy partner Raphael; heal me! Heal my doubt! Heal my cousin! Heal her darkness!" Like a hymn, she repeated the same prayers all the time.

On her small bureau was her Bible, with the edges of the sheets painted in gold, shining faintly under the moonlight. She looked at the thick volume until its edges blurred. For her, having been raised in the Catholic faith had been a privilege. What her parents had lacked in money and pretentious garments, they had made up in happiness and love.

A memory lingered in her mind; it was Sunday, and she and her mother were going to the the Basilica of San Zeno to attend the mass. Little Rosaline, who had learnt by heart the Corinthian style of the capitals and the number of colours from looking tediously at them every week, tugged at the woman's skirt when she knelt at the entrance and asked, "Mother, dear mother, why must we come every Sunday here? People are quiet, and the only one speaking talks in complicated words I can understand not. It bores me deeply. Why are we always here?"

It would have been expectable that Rosaline's mother shall, at least, reprimand her for asking such questions at the church, where everyone could hear what her daughter had said. Instead, she rose and grabbed Rosaline by her armpits, lifting her the way she used to when Rosaline was a smaller girl. Then she pointed at the fresco that presided the nave of the church, and looked at her. "Dost thou know what that is?"

Rosaline stared at her blankly. "That is the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, mother."

A woman turned her head to give her an annoyed look when she said that, and Rosaline figured that she should have said 'Our Lord' or 'Our Saviour' instead of Jesus Christ's name. Still, her mother did not seem to care much about it, so she simply turned away from the woman's eyes and looked into her mother's.

"Very well. Dost thou know why we come here every week, Rosie?" Rosaline loved it when she called her Rosie. "It is to thank Him. When we come, and listen to His word, and kneel and bow our heads humbly before His image, and receive His body, we are saying 'Thank you'. Dost thou know why we thank Him for?"

Rosaline shook her head.

"Love," her mother answered with a small smile. There was something bright in her eyes, that only later would Rosaline be able to recognise as faith and pure belief. "We thank Him because He brought us love, Rosaline. We are His children, and as such, we are loved by Him infinitely, with a love so pure thou canst imagine not, and neither can I. Dost thou remember the priest's words last week? We are His _capolavoro_ , His favourite and best work, His most cherished creation. His sons and daughters. Before His eyes, we are all equal, because we are loved by Him equally. He wilth always pardon thee, Rosaline, when thou dost something wrong that fills thy heart with regret. He wilth always open His eyes for thee, Rosaline, when thou hast wandered off the right path and find thyself lost, and ask Him to show thee the way back. He wilth always shelter thee when thou art feeling sad, and He wilth always walk with thee so that thou shalt never be alone."

They were a lot of promises, and Rosaline kept quiet, thinking about them, as her mother led her to an empty bench and sat with her, and remained silent throughout the most part of the mass. She had to stand up and hold her mother's hand and a stranger's to pray the Our Father, and to shyly give the peace to the people around her. But she had not confessed her sins since last Easter, so she sat in complete silence while others took communion, and did not talk again until they received the final blessing. Like she used to, her mother knelt before the altar before taking her small hand in hers and leaving.

Outside was the woman who had looked angrily at Rosaline before. "Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain, little girl!" she said when she spotted them. "The Ten Commandments Moses received were carved by our Lord in a night of storm and fire, and among them was this prohibition. How dare thou disrespect our Lord's name?"

"Peace, sister," said Rosaline's mother, with a calm that astonished her daughter. "She is only a child of eight, and bore no intention of disrespecting our Saviour's sacred name. It was purity of heart she spoke with."

"Still, it does not make the fact that she did wrong fall into oblivion."

Rosaline's mother squeezed the girl's hand and smiled vaguely. " 'Let any one of thee who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her', was it not?"

Somehow, her words were final. The woman stomped away, and Rosaline's mother pulled her daughter forwards smoothly to get her walking towards their home. For a good part of the walk, they remained in silence, Rosaline's mind working at top speed.

Then she said, when they were five minutes away from their house, "Mother?"

"Aye, Rosie?"

She hesitated for a second. "If Je... Our Lord made us similar to Him, why are there bad people? Like that woman from before. Does He love even bad people?"

Her mother smiled again. This was not the vague grin from before, but a warm one. The smile of a teacher who is being asked the right questions. "We are animals not because He gave us a choice, Rosie. He made us creatures of free will, and as such we live. There is always a choice. Thou canst choose to behave wrongly, and thou canst choose to behave rightfully; only thou canst decide. I believe not that one can be bad from head to toes. Even if one acts in the worst of ways, there wilth always be a spark of good in one's heart, because there wilth always be a choice. Dost thou think I cease to love thee when thou art naughty and obey me not?"

"Nay, mother." Rosaline ducked her head, deep into thought. "At least, I hope not."

"Because I am thy mother, and I will always love thee, no matter what thou do. I will always forgive thee, if thou regret the wrong thou did, and even if thou dost not, I will always wait for thee to realise thou made a mistake and regret thy actions. I will always have hope in thee, Rosaline, never forget that. And our Lord wilth, too. That is why we call Him Father. Because he will never leave, and there will never be a wrong He can forgive not."

Little Rosaline's head throbbed and hurt a little from trying to understand everything her mother was saying, but she had the feeling she had managed to get the essentials right. Mostly the repetition of the words 'love', 'wrong' and 'choice'. But she had one last question to ask.

"Mother," she called again.

"Aye, Rosie?"

"If I were not a good girl, or if I did something others like not but I think is right, or if I were different from the rest... Wouldth He still love me the same?"

Rosaline's father, whose leg had resulted injured a few days ago when he helped an old woman out of a flame-licked building outside the city walls, was working at the garden of their small house. He raised his hand to wave at them. There was a blade in his hand; he was sitting on a chair, peeling off dry leaves from the plants nearby. Rosaline waved back at him, and felt something warm when he smiled at her.

"Of course, Rosie." Her mother kissed her own palm and blew towards her husband, who grabbed the invisible kiss and pressed it to his lips. "Thou wilst always have His love."

That was all little Rosaline had needed to know.

And even now, ten years after, Rosaline still believed in her mother's words. Not only because her mother would have never lied to her, or because she had faith in Lord, but rather because she could feel them. Whenever she felt alone or lost, like she did now, she would close her eyes and softly reach for Him, and then  feel the reassuring security of His love around her like a blanket. She had grown quite used to speaking to God, instead of repeating endlessly the same prayers. She had spoken to Him about Tybalt, and after, about Tazia. And she had received a certainty. There had been few things in her life she had felt were as true.

Even if Tazia was different from the rest, even if Tybalt did a thing others would condemn if they knew but he felt was right, even if Tybalt was not the model of a perfect man, He still loved him the same. And if Tazia was Tybalt's happiness, He still loved her the same.

 

An hour after she had bid Anthony farewell as he walked away from the Capulet household with her letter inside his pocket, Rosaline took from his hands Benvolio Montague's answer. "I thank thee, Anthony, for thy service," she said with a small smile. "Thou may take the rest of the morning free."

Anthony laughed nervously. "If my lady will continue to give me free time, I might be in danger of not knowing what to make of it," he said. "Art thou well, my lady?"

Was she well? She did not know. She would have never said no, but could she say 'yes' confidently? Benvolio's words grew heavier in her hands. "I think so," she said finally. "Or, at least, I hope I can think so."

The servant looked at her for a while, then seemed to remember his position and lowered his eyes. Rosaline reached for his chin and gently made him look at her face again.

"My lady."

"Thou art not inferior to me in any way, Anthony. All humans are equal in dignity and rights, and thou art equal to me. Thou shalt not behave as if thou were any different. Thou art not my lord, for thou art simply Anthony, and I am not thy lady, for I am simply Rosaline."

Anthony went very still, then curtsied. "Aye, my lady." Then he shook his head and said, "Rosaline."

Her name was strange on his lips.

"I will see thee later, Anthony."

She received one last curtsy and a grateful smile before he left. With eager fingers, she opened the envelope Benvolio Montague had sent her, and started reading. It was a short letter.

_Dearest Rosaline:_

_Nothing would please me more than talking to thy cousin. If it be true that thou dost trust me to help her, then it must be willingly that I agree to try. It fills my heart with joy to discover the kind nature of thy opinion of me, but I must confess the doubt that fills me when I think of the nature of Tazia's opinion of me. The last time she saw me, I became the keeper of her biggest secret when she meant it to happen not, and she must be angry and afraid when it comes to me. I must warn thee, Rosaline, that rejection may be Tazia's natural answer to the meeting. When one has spent a whole life fearing, after all, it is fear that should be expected. Still, even when this risk is present in my mind, I am ready to meet her wherever thou consider._

_B_

It was a mostly scarce answer, but enough. Rosaline folded the paper and squeezed it, thinking of how to arrange things. Her first task, of course, was to convince Tybalt to go.

"Knock, knock," she said smoothly, opening the door to Tybalt's room slowly and looking for him. "May I trespass thy door?"

"Aye," Tybalt mumbled. "Please come in, beautiful cousin, for there is something I must share with thee."

His room was slightly messier than usual, his clothes from last night hanging from the back of a chair, his covers crumpled from having been sat on. Tybalt's back was facing her, his silhouette dark in contrast with the blue sky on the other side of the window. His posture did not give away his anxiety; his white knuckles did. Rosaline gently took them between her hands and caressed them with her thumbs.

"What troubles thy mind, sweet Tybalt?"

He did not look at her when he spoke. "Thou dost know about the visit paid by Count Paris yesterday, late in the afternoon." He cleared his throat. "When I stumbled upon him, I was carrying in my hands Taz... the mask. I must fear he recognised it, Rosaline."

"O, Tybalt, be afeard not!" Rosaline dropped his hands to wrap her arms around him. "If it must be true, then he wouldth have informed the Prince already, and thou wouldst have been called to his presence, at least. But this hath happened not, as thou canst see. Worry not, sweet Tybalt; for I will take care of thee. Let Paris come and try to take thee, if he ever feels the need to; I will let him pass not."

Tybalt sighed in her arms. "I must thank thee for thy love, cousin, but there will come the day when it is enough not. What is the motive of thy visit?"

"For a long time, thou hast been at war with thyself, Tybalt. I want thee to see that thou art a mistake not, and that others are accepting of thee. I am accepting of thee. I know who thou art, and I love thee. Others will too."

"Art thou suggesting that I exhibit myself as the hideous beast I am?" Tybalt turned around and grabbed her wrists so quick, she did not even see him do it. "My answer is no, Rosaline, and please do never bring it up again."

"But at the ball..."

"I know! I was seen! Dost thou think I know not? Dost thou think I think not about it every second, every minute? Dost thou think I was happy to have one of my biggest enemies discover what I am? Dost thou think it makes me glad to know he might choose to destroy me in a way that wilth be more efficient than the many years of quarrels we have been at? It doth not!"

Rosaline had known Tybalt since he had been born, two years after her. The person she had in front of her was a complete stranger to her.

"Tybalt, please. I talked to Benvolio, and he is willing to help thee, and wilth tell nothing about thee."

"Thou didst _what!?_ "

This stranger was making her afraid.

"Tybalt, listen..."

"No!" the stranger howled. When he gripped the back of the chair, Rosaline noticed he was trying to hold back his anger. His closed fist. "Exeunt! Go! I wish not to see thee ever again, so bother not remembering my existence! I trusted thee, and thou hast betrayed me. I loved thee, and thou hast thrown me to my biggest enemy's claws. Away!"

When Rosaline's eyes burnt with tears, she did not let them fall. She waited until she was locked in her room.

Was there any way to help Tybalt?

If there was, it hurt her to acknowledge that it was not within her reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosaline makes my life worthy, I swear.


	9. Tybalt

To say that Tybalt was in a foul mood would have been a lie, for a foul mood was equivalent to overflowing joy in comparison to what he felt like. After having heard of Rosaline's makings, he felt alone and scared. It was not unusual for him to be filled by solitude and a sharp, throbbing fear of what tomorrow might bring shall his secrets leak out, but there was something else and far worse clawing at his flesh. Betrayal. It had been a rough seventeen years, but since he was eleven and first admitted to himself that what happened inside of him was not normal, it had been even rougher than when he was little and had to watch as his parents destroyed each other every night before their only son's eyes, hands busy with empty bottles of wine. But he had always had Rosaline by his side. When he was afraid that he was turning into his father, a creature full of blinding rage and purposeless violence, it had been her who had soothed his doubt. When he did not want to look in the mirror because he could not stand what he saw, nor what he did not see, it had been her who had held his hand. When he was so full of pain that even he could not understand and wanted to end it all, or at least break a few Montague noses, it had been her who had hugged him until the boiling darkness pulled back. It had always been her, chasing the darkness away. Rosaline had always been his knight in a shiny armour. 

Lack of reassurance that she would be there for him felt alien and unbearable. He wished he could erase the happenings of the afternoon from their lives, but he had no power whatsoever over time and space, no more than that he had over the flicker of the stars or the song of the rivers. He had thought he knew what loneliness felt like before, but this was a whole new thing. Much worse. 

He turned away from the window, eyes itchy from staring at nowhere without blinking for too long, and ran a hand through his extremely short hair. Fist clenched at the nape, he pulled. All the little hairs slipped between his fingers, but he pulled again and again. Again and again, he could not tear his hair off his head. It was not until something warm and sticky tickled in his neck that he realised how deep were the scratches he had opened in his scalp. 

Without bothering to treat his injuries, he kicked his boots off his feet and pulled his clothing off him, everything falling to the floor like forgotten raindrops here and there, most probably waking someone up, but he did not have a care. He did not have a care. He did not have a care. He stuck a fist inside his mouth, which muffled his screams enough to almost silence them until his throat turned sore and he could yell no more. He did not have a care. Here, he was strong and he did not have a care. Dad and Mum hit each other, he did not have a care. Mother was gone, he did not have a care. Father had died, he did not have a care. Tybalt was a girl, he did not have a care. Tybalt was alone, he did not have a care. He did not have a care. 

As he fell asleep, he could have sworn the shadows lurking the corner of his room were not mere distorsions of his belongings. They had a shape. Like a mole. Quiet. Waiting. Watching.

 

A whole week went by, and the young man never left his room. He opened his door a little when Anthony knocked to bring him his meals and clean his chamber pot, but otherwise he spent his hours alone, a miserable lump under the sheets with a soul too broken to be human anymore. At first he found himself weary after digging through the pain and the hurt, but soon the strength of his feelings was enough to wipe out the boredom and leave room only for darker things with a beat of their own. Slow and steady, there seemed to be another heart inside his chest that pumped despair through his veins. When he looked at his arms and saw his swollen veins, he was surprised that they were not dark. He felt as though he were filled with a dense ooze, like pitch.

Juliet tried to talk to him more than once. After he locked the door, she tried from the other side of the window. When he pulled the curtains, she slipped notes under his door. When he pushed them back to the corridor, she grabbed his fingertips and rubbed them. It was something so typical of Rosaline that he could not bear it, and he always pulled back harshly. On Friday, Juliet stopped trying.

Rosaline tried to contact him too, of course, either via Anthony or via Juliet, but he always refused to listen to anyone. He wondered why his uncles had not expelled him from the Capulet household yet. Most probably, someone had talked them into excusing their behaviour as typical of young, hot-tempered men. Most probably, said someone had long eyelashes and a marble smile. 

There were a few books he kept in his room, one of which was Dante Alighieri's _Comedìa_. Out of the three cantos, the one he read obsessively over and over again was the Purgatorio, paying attention to every letter as he was told of the mountain with the seven terraces, like the seven deadly sins. The thought of it sent shivers down his spine as he imagined all the punished souls who had managed to dodge a sentence in Hell, but had been forced to suffer in the Purgatory. Something about their doom appealed to Tybalt, who could not think of any worse place to end up in. Watching as others ascended to Paradiso, having led a good life, while in pain. 

He was about to give it another go when someone knocked on his door. "A letter, my lord."

Setting the old book aside, Tybalt pathetically tugged at his creased shirt before opening the door the slightest. Thick and creamy, the envelope Anthony handed him was not from a commoner; that much, he could tell. The royal coat of arms was on the seal, but that was the only clue relative to the identity of the writer. Not even Tybalt's name had been written on the envelope.

Inside was only a Biblical quote. Without a signature.

 

_Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you._

_Deuteronomy 31:6_

 

The handwriting was not Rosaline's.

Tybalt covered his mouth with his hand and began to cry.

 

When the knot in his throat eased enough to allow him to speak, he did something he had not even thought of for quite some time. After he put the letter away at the bottom of his wardrobe, he pulled the curtains to open the window. A rush of fresh air furiously flooded the room, as if every gale in Verona had been waiting outside for him to let them in. Only when he smelled the scent of the outside world did he notice the stale stench of his room. Desperation, oblivion and self-pity. Anthony would have to bring in some flowers to fight it.

Then he looked at the kingdom of dirty sheets and clothing, and suddenly could not stand it. The Divine Comedy lay atop his pillow, and it was the only thing he did not put in the massive to-be-washed pile. Out of the scarce clothes that were left, he selected the more presentable outfit he could make of them and dressed up properly for the first time in seven days. The shirt he had been using for the past week looked even filthier than the sheets. Remembering that he had worn it for several days made him feel dirty and greasy all over. A bath. Once he brought in the flowers, Anthony should prepare him a bath. Maybe he would do it himself. It was going to take the servant at least an hour to erase the rancid smell of a week of cloister.

Exiting his room, the corridor struck him as unfamiliar and bigger than he remembered it. The eerie sensation faded after an instant, but it lasted enough to make him realise how horrible it had actually been to be stuck in his room. Upon reaching Rosaline's door, he closed his eyes and steadied his heart. It was similar to navigating a sinking ship, but he tried nonetheless. Mustering all the courage he could gather, Tybalt knocked. One hit.

At first, no one answered. In the end, Tybalt assumed that he had knocked on the door of an empty room.

Then the door flew open.

Thanks to the study of Petrarca's poems on courtly love and beautiful maidens, Tybalt knew what the perfect woman's looks should be by heart. Fair skin, long blond hair, blushed cheeks the colour of a rose, big light eyes. To remember every trait, he had always pictured Rosaline in a blue dress, which also allowed him to see the svelte neck, the narrow shoulders and waist and the small breasts. His cousin had always been the personification of a sweet beauty pursued by many, but now before him stood someone vaguely familiar. Logic said it was Rosaline Capulet in front of his eyes, but it was difficult to find her under the disheveled mane, the watery eyes and the feeble looks.

For a few seconds, she did not say anything.

Then she cried a single tear.

"Tybalt," she muttered. "Hello."

From the storm in her eyes, Tybalt could tell she was struggling not to slap him across the face or bang the door shut. He rubbed his unshaved chin, which had grown quite a beard.

"Hello," he whispered. Then he coughed and said, "Forgive me, I have talked not for many days."

"Aye," she said. Then she cried another tear.

"Forgive me," Tybalt repeated. "I misunderstood thy intentions, and treated thee unfairly. Thou hast never done any wrong to me, but I have treated thee as of thou hadst. Fair is it not to beg for thy pardon and seek thy love again, but I must still crave it, for it is only thee that hath kept me alive for the past six years. If it be thy will that I return not to thy life, then be it my command. But if it be possible that thou canst some day pardon me for the hurt I inflicted thee, then I wilst walk a thousand miles and wait a thousand years for that day."

Rosaline did not answer anything. Instead she let go of the doorknob, then slowly put her arms around his waist, then even slowlier rested her head against his chest.

"Today," she gasped. "Let today be that day, my sweet Tybalt."

He gently turned around so that he was inside her room and gave a few steps backwards, then kicked the door closed. And the rest of the tears they had yet to cry followed.

 

Her hair tickled the base of his neck. Tybalt closed his eyes and felt the familiar shape of his cousin in his arms, and marvelled at the thought of being as close as they were before again. Rosaline was the sister his parents had never given birth to, and when he thought of how close he had been to losing her... It was something he did not want to even imagine.

"I will," he whispered against her temple. "For thee, I will meet Benvolio Montague."

"Nay." Rosaline pulled away to cup her hand around his cheek. " 't is not for me that thou shall meet him. 't is for thyself."

Tybalt lowered his eyes at the sight of the love that filled hers, ashamed. He had been egoistic and cowardly enough to give that up to comfort and fear. 

"For myself, few things exist that I would do," he declared. "But for thee, for thy faith in me, no ocean exists that I would cross not, no land I would walk not, and no thing I would do not."

Rosaline looked at him intensely, then slowly reached for her comb and ran it through her hair until she tamed it. Then she crossed her arms over her chest, and cleared her throat.

"Thou canst come out," she said in a low voice. 

Confused, Tybalt ducked her head and looked at her. 

Then Benvolio Montague opened the doors of her wardrobe and stepped outside.

"I must thank thee," he said, slightly suffocated. "The air inside thy wardrobe was becoming a little too hot for me to breathe. How dost thou, Tazia?"

He said it so naturally. 

"Well be with thee," he said, too astonished by the fact that Benvolio Montague had come out of his cousin's wardrobe to point out the fact that Benvolio Montague had come out of his cousin's wardrobe.

"Before thou came, Benvolio and I were thinking of a way to make peace with thee," Rosaline explained shyly. "Anthony helped him get inside our house lending him servant clothing, as thou canst see."

Capulet red and Benvolio Montague were not something Tybalt had ever imagined together, but the result of such a mixture was standing in front of him.

"First goes first. Let me offer thee my apologies for having not spoken with thee earlier, Tazia." Benvolio rubbed his forearm. "Thou should have earned my reassurance, but I was able not to offer thee the certainty that thy secret was safe when thou were in the most desperate need of it. For that I make my apology to thee.

"Even though methinks that my word holds not much value in the eyes of a Capulet, lest a Montague might bring betrayal and wrong with his agile speech, I swear to thee that no one will learn about thee, Tazia. Peradventure thou hast vented thy ire at Rosaline because of me, and I understand the reasoning that has taken thee to rejecting her trust in me. If thou were in my place and I were in thine, I am afeard I would have done the same. But I understand thee. I understand the storm that would befall thee if thy secret shall become known. And I wish not for it to happen to thee. So mark my words, Tazia Zefirelli: my mouth wouldth rather have the tongue cut than speak the truth of thee."

And Tybalt realised that he believed him. Because if Benvolio had spoken about him and his secret, there would have been consequences already. If Tybalt's true nature had become of public knowledge, he would not be living in Verona anymore. Maybe he would not even be alive.

Rosaline reached for Benvolio's hand and squeezed, then did the same with Tybalt's. If he had grabbed Benvolio's he would have closed the circle, but he had had enough emotions for the day already. Trusting the Montague boy was not the same as holding hands and being too friendly with him. That one line was one he was not going to cross.

"I... Thank thee for thy sincerity," admitted Tybalt, observing how his feet were pointed inwards, like an unfinished triangle in front of him. "Let this serve as proof that I believe thy words, Benvolio Montague: I also know the secret of thee."

As soon as he spoke, Benvolio reacted. Eyes wide open, he stared at Tybalt with his face contorted by horror as his skin turned paper white. 

"Thou..."

"At the garden. I was waiting for my sweet cousin Rosaline." Understanding filled Benvolio's eyes as he visibly remembered the night and matched the green-eyed maiden in red and gold. 

"It was thee. With the black beret."

"Aye." Tybalt nodded. It felt like a good moment to grab the young man's hand, considering the striking news he had just been delivered, but Tybalt remained still. "In exchange for thy silence, I offer mine. No word about what my eyes witnessed shall leave my mouth. Benvolio Montague, I trade my safety for thine. Because thou hast been kind to me, I shall be kind to thee. My lips are sealed."

To his very surprise, Benvolio did not show any fear or anger. His eyes were full of emotion, but the first tears betrayed it as relief rather than concern.

"I trust thee," he said in a low voice. "There is no... But I trust thee. I trust thee. God bless thee, Tazia. Methought... After what happened..."

Hiccup after hiccup, Benvolio could not speak any further. But it did not matter. Because he trusted Tybalt, and Tybalt trusted him, and even if trusting a lifelong enemy was crazy and the least advisable thing to do, Tybalt trusted him, and he trusted Tybalt. Both secrets were safe. And the knot of fright that had been tense in his chest for a week finally eased a little. But not fully, because for it to disappear, there was something else he had to do.

Rosaline, wise enough not to ask about Benvolio's secret, looked at him and smiled.

"I am so glad that thou let others show thee love," she said. "Proud. I am glad not, dearest cousin. Methinks that the most adequate word to name what I feel like about thee is pride."

"Thou art enormously strong for what thou hast done today, lady Tazia," Benvolio nodded. "And I assure thee that thou art not disgusting. Thy nature is merely that of a person who hath had bad luck with the body they have been born in. Wrong it be not, for thou didst not choose it. Know that, shall thou ever decide to appear thyself to the world, I will support thee."

"I thank thee," Tybalt said. The lump in his throat was so tight, it hurt and made him want to cry. "And now I must bid thee farewell. There is something I must accomplish."

Again, no one asked indiscreet questions.

 

With a sigh, he pulled a tapestry off his mirror and forced himself to check his looks. A familiar wave of disgust hit him, but he clenched his teeth and stared at the eyes staring back, then the lips pursed in a grimace of defy, then the whole of his face. There was business that needed to be taken care of, but Tybalt pushed it aside and focused solely on standing his reflection. It was not easy. His gaze dropped to his bare feet more often than not. The sight of himself made the back of his throat hurt with tears. Wherever he looked, he saw nothing more than wrong flesh wrongly shaped belonging to a wrong person. But he stared. Slowly, the person in the mirror surrendered and the struggle soothened.

He thought of the support from Rosaline and Benvolio. He thought of Juliet's warm, genuine smile when she had seen him in the corridor, and the warm hug she had given him. He thought of Anthony helping him clean his room, then teaching him how to prepare a hot bath and thanking him for the close treatment. 

A bad memory assaulted him all of a sudden.

Tybalt was five years old, and in his podgy hands was Poupette, a rag doll Rosaline had lent him that day. It had been Juliet's fourth birthday, and all the Capulet family had gathered to celebrate the occasion. Even his parents, who usually declined the invitations from Tybalt's mother's family, had agreed to attend the small party. Tybalt had played with Rosaline and Juliet and a few other cousins who lived in a different city, and had eaten his uncle's fantastic cream pie, and had recited a poem Rosaline had taught him to the delight of the adults. It had been an extraordinary day, and he had felt happy. When he had discovered that the smile he felt in his lips and the cool light inside his chest were happiness, it had made him even happier, because he had been convinced that he was unable to host such emotion.

But the day had come to an end, and Tybalt and his parents had returned home. Of course, he had hoped that the soirée at the Capulet household would leave them too tired, but they were never too tired to drink. He had fled to his room when his mother opened the first bottle. Shortly after, the first cry came. It was his father's. Then his mother's answered. Something broke against the door of his room, presumably a bottle. Then something else. The third sound could only be that of a human body. It was soft but landed hard, and made Tybalt's hair rise in his nape. He clenched his teeth and focused on playing with Poupette, but after a while he was just shaking her while hot, quiet tears rolled down his cheeks.

He wanted his parents to stop. He wanted to throw away every single bottle of wine in the house, and he wanted to open the curtains for once, and he wanted to be cooked his dinner instead of eating dry, cold bread and rancid cheese from the last time his parents remembered to buy food. He wanted to go outside and make friends who would not run from him because his parents were crazy and shouted at everyone and smelled weird. He wanted not to smell weird. 

He wanted to be like Poupette, her smile stitched on her soft face despite what was happening around her. Another sharp cry of pain. Tears growing hotter, rage growing hotter, cheeks growing hotter. The desire to be normal, to be anyone but Tybalt Capulet, almost too strong to bear.

In the end, they fell asleep. They always did, and rose the next morning too numb to feel the pain from their bruises, and with a headache too intense to remember what they had said and done, or the fact that they had a son who should be taken care of. Some days, after the most violent nights, Tybalt would cross paths with his mother, and she would ask him, bewildered, who he was and what he was doing in her house. He was five, and had never gone to school. His cousin Juliet, even if she was a girl, was about to begin with her education.

Tybalt imagined himself wearing the same dresses as Poupette and his cousins. Girls were kind, and behaved nicely, and smelled pleasantly. It was not the first time he thought of dressing like a girl, but it was the first time he realised he wanted to become one. Maybe it was because the girls he knew were happy and had happy homes, or maybe it had always been there. But whatever the reason, Tybalt felt the urge to be a girl.

It died down so quickly, he just stared at Poupette while all Hell broke loose behind the closed door of his room and imagined himself wearing the doll's dress. Like a game. Just to have fun, to play. Because boys had to wear boring suits. His, a special outfit his mother had bought a lot of time ago to go to the church on Sundays that was too small to suit him well anymore, was uncomfortable and ugly. But when Rosaline and Juliet and Paola had played hide-and-seek with him, they had been comfortable and beautiful. The loose skirts allowed them to run better than his breeches did, and the lack of jerkin must feel so good.

Another yell and a thump, and his door creaked before going down and almost squashing Tybalt and Poupette. His parents fell atop of it, bleeding and stinking of alcohol, and then...

The memory was gone.

He was panting, his forehead sticky with sweat. It had been a long time since he last thought about his parents. With a whine, he tried not to remember how they had beaten him until he was almost dead when they caught him trying on one of Rosaline's dresses, which she had lent him to play on Juliet's seventh birthday and he had conveniently forgotten to return. Ghost bruises throbbed in his face and his stomach and his arms and his legs, and he chewed a lip that felt broken and swollen and tried to snap out of it. He tried not to picture his uncles' faces when they stopped by Tybalt's house to say hello after visiting the market and found their nephew lying on a pool of his own blood, and his parents dirty with the same sticky fluid and drinking together in the kitchen, oblivious to their son. He tried to think of their warm welcome instead, the way they had welcome him to the Capulet household and given him a room, clean clothes, and a family. He tried to remember the first birthday he had had celebrated, when he was nine, and the first time someone had said they were glad that he had been born. It had been Rosaline. He tried to feel the kisses his aunt had planted on his cheeks every night, when she called it a night for the three children living in her house. He brought back his uncles and cousins' love, and wrapped it around him like a blanket.

Then he thought of that night he had begun crying for no apparent reason, only to find out that it was because he had dreamt that he was a girl and had woken up in the middle of the night being a boy. He thought of Rosaline running into him in the corridor and hugging him, and he thought of her acceptance of him when he told her the reason behind his tears. He thought of Benvolio Montague saying that he supported him. No. That was not correct. She thought of Benvolio Montague saying that he supported her. That was correct.

She looked in the mirror again, bathed in the supernatural gleam of the moonlight. She looked at Tybalt Capulet as if he were an old friend, and offered him a small smile. Because this was it. Because Tybalt had been some kind of bodyguard, protecting her from the rest of the world, but now the time had come for him to finally rest. Because Tybalt had to go, and she had to bid him farewell, the way you bid farewell to a dearly beloved. She pictured a quivering five-year-old Tybalt playing with Poupette the rag doll and imagining himself wearing a dress, and she pictured herself hugging him, holding him tight and comforting him for a small while. Something inside her chest felt right at this. Something felt warm. Something felt gone, and something felt found.

No moles lurked the shadows, not anymore.

Then Tazia's lips parted.

"Hello."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I must apologise for the two-weeks-and-a-half disappearance, but I simply wasn't on the mood to write. Then again, I really like how this chapter (which is kind of one of the most important ones, by the way) has turned out, so maybe waiting for inspo was the right choice. I must warn you that I'm starting school next week (D:), so the updates will become either hella quick, because I don't want to have any ongoing story this year, or hella slow, because you'll have to wait until I gather enough spare time to write something worthy and then post it. Which could mean until Christmas or so. Still, thanks a lot for sticking with the Montacrew, the Capulet gang and with me in this story, it really means the universe <3


	10. Juliet

The muscles of her back were beginning to sore from the uncomfortable posture, but Juliet refused to stand straight. Almost an hour of crouching before the tulips had turned her shoulders and neck into several knots that ached like a thousand wasps' razor-like stingers, which was rather excruciating. But if she let the physical pain numb her mind, she could pretend it was the only pain she felt. And that was well worth an afternoon of taking care of the tulips.

One of the last letters Romeo Montague had sent her weighed inside the pocket of her habit, crumpled from the excessive re-reading she had exercised over its creamy surface. Even as she thought of the slight roughness of the thick paper, her cheeks tickled and her heart did the weird thing it had taken the habit of doing whenever the very reminiscence of Romeo's name entered her mind. Because he had spelled, in his thick and curvy calligraphy, a very clear 'I am afeard that I must confess my arrant love for thee, beautiful Juliet, which doth not inhabit like place in my heart as the amity I profess of Benvolio, and which God ought to take perforce from my rigid corse were He to take it away from me'. And because she ached to answer something just as beautiful, with the words that fluttered inside her mouth and soul like birds flapping in search of freedom, but knew that it was not something within her reach.

Since she was little, she had enjoyed thinking of herself as a girl of a certain wit. It was not out of arrogance or ego, but rather out of the consciousness that a woman must respect herself above any other sentiment lest she wants to have a shot at making her way through a corseted life governed by men. But fostering feelings for the only son of her father's most abject enemy did not look like something a witty girl would ever do, yet she could not help the sigh that set her chest ablaze whenever she thought of Romeo Montague's words on Plato's model of an ideal society, the beauty of the afternoon light shining against the river outside of the city, or her own charm. Her back ached, but her pride and common sense ached even further.

Still, it was not like she could have done anything to repress her feelings. Who was to blame, if not Romeo Montague herself, if he had the gift to play with words and model them as though they were clay of the finest quality in the hands of the most skilled potter? Rumour had it Romeo had had trouble learning to read and write as a little child, and some of the most venomous spirits liked to affirm that he still could not do either at all. But Juliet only needed to read a line from his letters to prove them wrong in her heart, for the sincerity they were doused in was impossible to be doubted. How, she knew not—but she had the absolute certainty that Romeo had not payed anyone to write such sweet things to her. After years of receiving Count Paris' sugary writings, she could tell the very difference between the two men's words.

"Dearest Juliet! Wilst thou enter into the house, and be pleased to accept the bath that I have prepared for thee? It is passing late, and thou must be overly exhausted from thy hard labour embellishing our modest gardens." Rosaline massaged Juliet's shoulders with her ivory hands, her blond curls tickling Juliet's nape. "Thou shall make these the finest flowers of Venice."

"Methinks that there were finer flowers at the Prince's lavish ball." Juliet looked at Rosaline and smiled, with a grin that soon morphed into a grimace as she stood. "Haply Anthony brought Mother the physic for her nightly muscle ailments? A little of that unguent of hers shall hurt me not."

Rosaline's skin was made of melted bronze under the last afternoon sunrays, and her smile was made of the finest nacre. For some reason, Juliet found herself paying enough attention to build such metaphors, and wishing that a certain gentleman would pay equal attention to her own looks someday. And for some other reason, she found herself lost in the fantasy of him speaking out loud the words of astonishing beauty he wrote to her daily while he held her hand.

Perchance she would be better off drowned in the river. The shame at the realisation of her trail of thought was so intense, she almost forgot about her crooked back.

"How is Tybalt?" she quickly asked, anxious to forget about Romeo a little. To her surprise, Rosaline's eyes lit up.

"Anight our sweet cousin cameth to see me." Her smile was like that of a child's at the sight of the falling stars in August. "Now there is no tear we have cried not, and no ammend we have restored not. Thou dost wot the nature of our cousin's struggle, for thou wereth present the day Count Paris came to indiscreetly demand that he be given information about a certain maiden, and now thou must bear in mind that she hath come to terms with the reality of herself."

Juliet's jaw dropped. The spade she had been holding dropped as well, but she only vaguely noticed the sharp sting of pain when it hit her toe.

"Thou meanst..."

"Aye." There were tears in Rosaline's eyes. "But let her be the bringer of the most joyous message we shall be to receive, for 't is my duty not to reveal the nature of her being."

Indeed there was an open door at the end of the corridor, which Juliet had not seen anything but closed for too long. When her cousin came out of it, bearing several clothes and followed by an equally busy-handed Anthony, the smile she was flashed was enough to erase the sorrow of a week's worth of not knowing whether Tybalt—Tazia—would ever recover from Rosaline's intent to relieve her burdening secret. 

When Rosaline had told her, Julied had not been able to believe that she would go as far as she had to make their cousin, if happy not, at least a little less tortured. But the curve in Tazia's lips was freer than any other Juliet had ever witnessed, and she understood instantly the many oceans Rosaline had crossed to obtain it. The same oceans as she would cross to see the two of them, or Romeo, smile at them with such peace of mind.

"Juliet!" She quickly pressed the habits into a soft ball and threw it through the service room's open door. "Thou art shining beautiful. I beg thy time, for there are many things I must tell thee."

Rosaline kissed Tazia's cheek. "Thy clothes smelled like a putrid piece of cheese already, and I must confess the joy I feel at the thought that they are to be washed anon." 

Not even Anthony, who walked past them presumably in search of some soap strong enough to take off Tazia's clothes the stench of a week of cloister, could supress a smile.

"I am to take a bath," announced Juliet, "that the godlike creature of a cousin we share hath prepared for me. Peradventure thou canst wait a little? I wish not to make thee attend, but I must confess the exhaustion and dirt are slightly too much to bear at the present moment."

"Aye," nodded Tazia, amused. "Let me be not the impediment to thy proper cleansing and hygiene, cousin."

"Thou canst save the irony for some other," she answered with mock anger. "But I shall fain follow thy advice."

After the warm water soothed her skin and nerves, Juliet swiftly slid inside a plain robe for the supper, which was neither beautiful enough to be worn outside the house nor so boring as to give a poor impression of her manners. Her feet were relieved at the comfort offered by her battered, favourite slippers, and as she made her way towards Tazia's room, she felt like dancing on her tiptoes for some reason. Then her fingers subtly caressed Romeo's letter, and she decided that the dancing could wait.

"Knock-knock." She pushed the door open gently, and startled at how empty Tazia's room was. "O Heavens above! What hath thou done? Peradventure some envious knave profaned the sacredness of thy refuge?"

"Belike, if Anthony be a scoundrel of the basest nature," Tazia chuckled. With a small smile, Juliet realised that thinking of her cousing as a 'she' came naturally. Even from herself, she had expected more resilience to a change so big concerning Tybalt—or rather the person who used to go by the name of Tybalt. If she gave it a rational thought, it should have been shocking as well as radically opposed to her Christian faith. 

And a little conflictive it was indeed, for she knew not to what extent would any other believer feel frightened by the terrible immorality of her cousin's struggle. But if Tazia felt happier than she had as a man, Juliet found that her soul could never condemn the nature of her relative's joy, nor could the new usage of pronouns faze her. Let the flames of Hell consume me forever, she told herself, if it be guarantee that the 

_Besides,_ she thought, accepting Tazia's offer to sit on her bed, _I can 'scape not the punishment for my infatuation with the Capulets' natural enemy's son. Being accepting of my own cousin, blood alike mine, canst aggravate my sins any further not.  
_

It was getting dark already, and the first stars of the night shyly peeped at them from behind the branches of the olive trees. The lit chandelier resting atop Tazia's bureau silhouetted warm shadows of the few other things inside the room—the shelf, the wardrobe, the bed, and Juliet and Tazia themselves.

"Gentle Juliet," Tazia began, rubbing her clavicle. "The remembrance of my repugnant behaviour towards thee over the past days frights me to such an extent, that I shall live not to see another dawn if my apologies be presented not. Wilst thou accept my sorrow and dissolve it with thy gentle pardon?"

Juliet nodded. "My concupsicent mood whispered in my ear that I must loathe thee, dearest cousin. But had I listened to its chant, like a weak man listening to the devil's wicked singing of despair and misery, I would have proved myself unworthy of the wit I am said to possess. For 't is not under the rainbow, but rather under the furious rains, where the true love of a family brought together by heart, rather than by blood, shows."

The smile Tazia gave her could have stopped a war. "Methought that no forgiveness could be expected, the way that no end would ever come to the darkness I was born struggling with. But thou hast proved me wrong, and I could be not glader not for it." She bent forwards to kiss her cousin's palm, and then knelt before her. "The truth is, beautiful Juliet, that I have marked the letters that thou hast taken the habit of receiving every day."

At first, Juliet smiled at the thought of having someone besides Romeo to talk to about Romeo himself. But then she remembered how close Tybalt—when he was Tybalt—and he had been to killing each other more than once. And with it came the memory of the bleeding wounds Tybalt had brought home every time, proud as though they were a trophy, and the loathe in his eyes at the mere mention of the Montagues. 

Gone were all the feelings of joy; all that was left in her soul was the gloom of knowing that, after all, the love inside her heart was something of a profane nature that not even the people closest to her heart would ever be insane enough to approve.

So she did not answer, and simply allowed Tazia to go on speaking.

"Thou appeareth like a frighted deer staring at its hunter, feeling the ghost of the well-aimed arrow already piercing through its beautiful gleaming eyes." She took Juliet's left hand between hers, and started rubbing the soft valley between the thumb and the index. "But thou must be afeard not, my precious cousin. As thou hast already deduced, I indeed bear knowledge of the nature of thy feelings for Romeo Montague, he who hath been my sworn enemy since we were children of three, and who is descended from a bloodline that has sung of hatred towards our family for centuries.

"But I bear knowledge of the pain of being unfree, and no man hath ever built a prison more powerful than the ones we build for ourselves. Thou hast convinced thyself of the impossibility of thy love already. That much I can see in thy eyes, and if thou believest me not, thou must only look at thy reflection in the glass." Tazia cupped Juliet's cheek with her free hand. "After a whole life of hiding, the pursuit that terrified me the most hath been the source of the most peace of mind I have ever enjoyed. 't is true that thou hast been raised to loathe the sound of Romeo Montague's name and his very existance, just like I have, but such hate is an inheritance thou canst say 'no' to. 

"Hear my words of truth, Juliet: if love be what gives new life, and love be what giveth hope in the darkest days, and soothes tired hearts like a friend, then love canst be wrong not. Let it be forsaken not, sweet cousin, because of what others might say. No force exist that wilst keep thee from loving Romeo if thy heart be set for him already; thou ought not to make thyself miserable by attempting such. Word runs through the streets of Verona that he is profoundly in love with a mysterious lady he hath been writing to, which I have marked to be thee. Waste time not by wondering whether thy feelings be returned, nor by fearing the consequences—gain time by loving, and being loved."

Uncountable fights had taken place in the streets of Verona between Romeo and Tybalt, and Juliet had lost track of the times she had had to heal his wounds while she listened to a retelling full of rage and swearing about the youngest Montague's devilish nature and ill intentions. The fact that Tazia could speak of  him without a trace of such dark disgust was enough proof of the sincerity with which she spoke her words of support. And the fact that she believed in their odds with such passion, precisely _her_ , was enough to bring tears to Juliet's eyes.

"Of course," added Tazia, with a crooked smile, which was so Tybalt-ish Juliet could not supress a grin, "shall he ever hurt thee, I must make him feel a pain so excruciating, he wilth beg on his knees for me to finish his miserable existence. If he canst still talk and kneel, that is. Not one, but two men wilth Verona be lacking."

Were it not for the previous, sweeter words Tazia had spoken about Romeo, Juliet would have sent the Montague youth a rather imperative advice to flee from the Republic of Venice and settle down somewhere else.

 

Instead, what she wrote later that night was an offer to meet at one of the forgotten corners of Verona, near the Jewish ghetto. Usually they went for quiet walks at hours intempestive enough that it was safe to wander around less peripheral streets, but she had no desire whatsoever to meet him at such a late time that day. Despite the great lengths she would have gone for Romeo, the intense afternoon working on the garden had left her so tired that opening her eyes was an odyssey. If she wanted to be lucid enough to produce coherent sentences, she could not afford waiting until the moon had begun its descent towards the horizon.

Of course, Romeo did not answer. And she did not need him to. She knew that he would simply find a way to be there for her at the due time.

"Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war," he said when he spotted her, turning his gaze from the crystalline river under their feet, below the bridge, "how to divide the conquest of thy sight."

Juliet was not sure whether she rolled her eyes at the excessive drama of his words, or at the excessive sommersault of her heart. In any case, she could not help tapping on his hand when she got close enough to him. When Romeo flipped his hand and caught hers, she could not help intertwining her fingers with his, either. 

"Thou art to intoxicate thyself," she pointed out, "with the sweet wine of thy speech."

"Methinks that 't is worthy of the risk if it be turned into one smile from thee." Romeo suddenly raised their hands to his cheek. "Let the Doomsday surprise us here, my lady, for there is naught else my heart can be satisfied with."

" 't is not fair," Juliet protested. "If thine be all the beautiful words, what shall I wield?"

Romeo tilted his head triumphantly. "Thy gaze like a godess', and thy wit like a—like a Juliet's, for there ought to be not any comparison to thy brilliance."

"No brilliance canst be lit for too long without a reasonto shine for." She kicked a small pebble, which plopped into the river. "It be a star, it be a candlelight, or it be love."

They stayed silent for a while.

"So thou art admitting of thy sentiments for me?" 

When she turned to look at him, Romeo looked genuinely confused. But not only confused like a child who has lost his parents and faces a wild, new world on his own for the first time. Romeo looked confused like someone tiptoeing on the edge of happiness, who has danced with a chimera for long enough that even the thought of something beyond the fantastic mixture of dreams and hope comes in as dazzling.

"Romeo, I..." Before she could build any walls between them again, the way she always did when Romeo got too close to peeping at her bare heart, she scolded at herself and tried to voice the thoughts that had been swarming inside her head for so long. "Thou... Methinks that... I can do this not," she whispered in the end, feeling a thousand wasps inside her chest. Shaking like a leaf, she let go of Romeo's hand and embraced her own waist, trying to regain control before her tears betrayed her.

Because this was the real Juliet, the mediocre girl Romeo had fallen for. This was, like people said behind her back or so they thought, the girl of iron and ice who could not hold any true love for anyone, and who was said to be such a prodigy when, actually, she was average, only with a _studiolo_ more cultivated than most men's. This was the farce behind the myth, the empty pot of honey. This was the girl unable to confess the only truly beautiful feeling she had ever experienced aside from the care for her family. 

And Romeo was going to feel so disgusted and betrayed when he realised what he had been wasting his heart-warming words of love on.

"My lady, what troubles thee?" With his sleeve, Romeo carefully rubbed Juliet's wet cheeks. "What dost thou need? Tell me, and I shall obey."

"Nay," she hiccuped. " 't is not within thy gentle reach, for the one thing I crave for can only come from within myself, and it wilth not."

Romeo chewed on his lower lip, then carefully sat down besides Juliet and looped his arm around her shoulders, close enough that she could feel her warmth, but still giving her some space. And he simply stayed there for her, and as the stars dimly flickered above them, Juliet told herself one more time that she did not deserve him, and never could, not even with a thousand lives to try to.

"My heart loveth thee," she mumbled in the end, her eyes closed. Saying it was surprisingly untroubling, and it even calmed her down slightly, the way petting a dog or nurturing her plants did. "But I am unable to tell thee properly, and to show thee the smallest amount of proof. Thou art a potter and the words are thy clay, whereas I am an alchemist and the words are stones I can turn not into gold. And I am so full of hope that thou wilst still want to write to me the same wonderful letters for the rest of thy life, but there is only so much that a heart can love without finding an appropiate response before it tires and turns away."

Someone passed by, and they both bowed their heads until their chins were resting against their chests and cuddled closer together, so that they could be mistaken for any other couple in any other situation. When whoever it was far enough that their steps did not echo anymore, Romeo carefully rested his ear against Juliet's chest. The shock from the touch was such, that Juliet forgot about the clawing inside of her for a second.

"I can hear thy heart," Romeo announced. "And it sings a song so quiet, 't is difficult to hear. But methinks that the beauty of it is worthy of the close attention I have to pay. No poem hath ever been able to explain the true nature of love for centuries, sweet Juliet, nor hath any bard. Whereas thou might think of thyself as not enough, I can only think of thee as the only owner of my soul and mind. Thou art not lavish with thy feelings, and that is precisely why hearing thee struggle to share them with me means so much more than a thousand words sweetened like mine. 't is not the beauty what matters, but the effort behind. And I do indeed see beauty in thee, Juliet. Aside from the looks of Aphrodite herself, I see the purity and colour of every other godess, and the merry circumstance that thou art divine not beyond thy virtues, and thus canst someday be mine the way I am thine. 

"I know what thou thinkst of being anyone else's, but hear my words: the moment I saw thee, my heart stopped belonging to me. 't is not that I gave it to thee, but rather that it had never been truly mine, and I had known not until that night. Disposeth of my heart, my lady, and make of it what thou must believe wiser; but please do believe my word, in righteous payment, when I assure thee that there hath never been any need for thee to correspond my offer with compliments and verses of love, for it was never my intention to receive any in return for speaking the truth."

It was too much. Her chest hurt in a completely new way, and Juliet was so full of things she wanted to say, so full of feelings that burst like bubbles behind her breasts and made her head so light and dizzy, so eager to just have Romeo feel the unexplainable way she felt, that she leaned a little backwards and lowered her head to meet his lips in a quick brush, or what was meant to be a quick brush. Because then Romeo sighed and she could not simply ignore the silent plea in the air that tickled her mouth when he did, so she behaved like a proper lady should and sent the protocol flying as she went back for more of Romeo. 

And they spent quite some time under the starlight, kissing like the two stupidly yet madly in love teenagers they were, as though they had been different people at a different time, free to love and be loved. But even though they were not, they were still free to ignore this lack of freedom, and they did. They clung onto the oblivion in which the other's caresses were doused, and set aside the troublesome world of words to speak with their mouths, but not with their voices.

"My," he finally said, pulling apart. "I highly doubt Mercutio has ever been able to find an alcohol tastier and more addictive that thee, my lady." He was panting slightly as he said this, and it was somehow attractive. Juliet blushed at the thought.

"There thou goest, flatterer." Her lips were swollen. And she was so happy that they were. "I... Methinks that 't is not a lunacy to hope that we can give it a try."

"It?" Romeo laughed. "Excuse my poor wit, my lady, but I think I need a thorough explanation."

Her cheeks felt scorched. "Let there be an 'us' where an 'it' stood before," she blurted. "Mehopes that thou art willing to give us a try."

Tomorrow would be a day of regret and fear, and she knew. Things were not going to be easy, and there were many things they needed to solve, each on their own. But that did not mean they could not lean on each other, or at least it did not have to.

"I wilst not give us a try," Romeo said as he leaned in once again. "I give us a forever."

And Juliet did trust him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My my, this is getting dusty already. A major 'thanks' and 'happy birthday' from all of you guys should go to amazing, breathtakingly marvellous bae Julia, because the fact that she was (thankfully) born today years ago is the reason why there is a new chapter of Smoke And Gold before Christmas. Show some love! :) 
> 
> And thanks for all the sweet comments--even though I might not have the time to answer properly sometimes, I do read them all, and believe me when I say that they have won my heart more than Juliet has won Romeo's.


	11. AUTHOR'S NOTE (Temporary)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick explanation on why this thing hasn't been updated for a whole seven months

Hi, guys! Okay, so we've all been waiting for a new chapter for seven months (or has it been only me? Whatever) and...

...still haven't got one. Yeah, myself, you're doing amazing! :))) As usually happens when a person goes missing for such a long time without any previous warning, there's a perfectly logical explanation, much more mundane than this dramatic author's note may suggest. No, I haven't been kidnapped or abducted by some extraterrestrial culture—I was busy finishing my last year at highschool, that's it. Somehow I managed to get through a whole nine months of misery, loneliness and crying and get a decent average, so hopefully I will get my scolarship and blah blah personal stuff. And why am I writing this, instead of a chapter? To clarify some things, of course.

First and foremost, I am NOT going to leave _Smoke and Gold_ unfinished for the rest of my life. Even if it's minimal, I still have a little pride left, and just as I never put away a book before finishing it —no matter how bad it is—, I don't usually cancel stories and leave them hanging just like that. Smoke and Gold is the first story I have managed to somehow map out before actually writing it, and after the effort that took, you can imagine I won't simply let it go to waste. So yup, we're gonna get the drama that's been building up, even more dramatic drama, and then the happy?, sad?, who-knows ending. (I do know, just for the record, but if I told, where would the fun be?)

Second, it might still be a slow proccess. See, when I wrote my other stories, _Night Visions_ and _The Fault In Our Wands_ , I was... bad. I binge-read the first chapter of NV the other day, the unedited version I posted on Wattpad (shame on me) two years or so ago, and I wanted to cry myself a river then drown in it. Or, the less dramatic option, simply ask every single person who somehow got through that piece of terrible prose and said they liked it, 'Just how? How could you?' What I mean is, I want to edit the whole thing before focusing on any new stories (because yeah, there are new things on the way), so I will alternate between S&G and editing. Please, be patient. I don't deserve it after nine months, but <3

And last, THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT THROUGHOUT THESE NINE MONTHS! Whenever I got an e-mail notification from AO3 saying someone had left kudos or comments on my stories, I wanted to cry, but for good reasons. No matter how much I practice, I will never be able to express how much it meant to me. Thanks for being lovely and, most importantly, thanks for being there.

So yup—read you soon! xxx


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